The Van Gelder Papers, and Other Sketches

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I

^s'v\Y\^^ "SoVjr^ ^\y

THE

VAN Gelder Papers

AND OTHER SKETCHES

EDITED BY
J. T. I.

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NEW YORK A. LONDON

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
1887

I. rx«^*«^

THE NEW YORK

PUBLIC LIBRARY

803347A

ASTOR, LENOX AND

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

a 1933 L

1

COPYRIGHT

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
X887

• •

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• • •

• •

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■>•

• • .

• •• • • • ^* *

• • • • •• •

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• • •

• • *

• •••

• •

• • • «•

• • • «.

• •• *.

• • •• •

of

6. P. PvnrAM's Sons
New York

CONTENTS.

Editor's Preface

rAGB

I

Teunis Van Gelder .

3

Nick Wanzer's Adventure

19

Derrick Van Dam

. 33

Ralph Craft

71

Zadoc Town

. 87

RuLiF Van Pelt

■ 105

Obed Groot

• 139

Harry Blake . .

. 181

John Munro . . . ,

. 257

A Visit of St. Nicholas .

290

Little Sharpshins

•

• 309

• ••

m

EDITOR'S PREFACE.

MANY years ago a friend of mine, Mr.
John Quod, prepared to write a
history of Long Island. He was a man of
thorough research, and did not confine his
investigations to books alone. He examined
the whole country from Coney Island to
Montauk Point, and in particular, visited the
spots therein rendered classic by the deeds of
departed worthies.

The information thus derived he committed
to paper — nor did he reject certain portions of
it because they happened to be of an unusual
character.

He did not live to complete his work. After
his death his papers came into my hands ; and
in compliance with his written request, I sub-
mit a portion of them to the public, by whom
I hope they will be properly appreciated.

J. T. I.

TEUNIS VAN GELDER.

ABOUT thirty miles from the city of New
York is a headland jutting out from Long
Island Sound, fortified against the wash of the
sea by huge boulders of rock. The banks of
the shore are rough and rugged, and bear marks
of the wear and tear of the waves. On the up-
land are tall trees, twisted into fantastic shapes
by the force of the winds which sweep down
the Long Island Sound. Between this prom-
ontory and the main-land is a land-locked bay,
from whose borders a dense forest stretches off
in various directions. The whole of this region
is known by the name of Matinecock.

Matinecock is a place of great antiquity, and
derives its name from an Indian tribe, which
once held sway there. Like many places on
Long Island, it is very much behind the rest of
the world in matters of every-day experience ;
and being situated at the end of several very

4 Teunis Van Gelder.

crooked lanes, and hemmed in by water and
sand beaches, it is no easy matter for the world
to get at it.

In this neighborhopd stands a large, ram-
bling house, made up of gables and angles, with
low roof, and overshadowed by lofty trees,
which show the growth of centuries. It was
originally built of squared logs, and was quad-
rangular in shape ; but each successive owner
added a wing or an elbow as it suited his fancy,
until it seemed to be made up of odds and ends
of architecture.

It had been founded nearly two hundred
years ago by one Teunis Van Gelder, a stal-
wart soldier, who had followed the Dutch gov-
ernor, Peter Stuyvesant, in his various cam-
paigns. His portrait was in one of the rooms
of the. mansion. It represented a stark warrior
with high cheek-bones, a mouth closed like a
steel-trap, shaggy eyebrows, and a slash across
the nose and part of the cheek as if from a
sword-cut. The whole denoted an iron char-
acter.

He had been a staunch campaigner, and had
stood by his old commander until the city of
Nieuw Amsterdam capitulated to the English.

Teunis Van Gelder. 5

But he would not remain to see it under their
domination. Bestowing on the invaders his
malediction, he turned his back upon it forever,
and retired to the fastnesses of Matinecock,
where he took possession of a tract of land
without inquiring who was the owner, erected
a dwelling, and settled himself down to brood
over his wrongs, and to meditate revenge.

Scarcely, however, had he got warm in his
new nest, before he was beset by the myrmi-
dons of Matinecock, led on by one Ebenezer
Cock, a tall, hard-fisted pioneer of the New
England breed. He claimed the ground on
which the Dutchman had settled, by virtue of
grant from the Indian owners of the soil. He
flourished under Van Gelder*s nose a parch-
ment signed with the hieroglyphics of four
sachems of the Matinecock tribe, by which, in
consideration of three shirts and a shoe, the
aforesaid sachems had conveyed to Ebenezer
Cock, Eliphalet Frost, and Sampson Latting
several thousand acres of land about Matine-
cock. This was too much for the gunpowder
disposition of the warrior. He glanced grimly
over the instrument, handed it back, swore that
he would defeqd his rights against all the

6 Teunis Van Gelder,

" Cocks ** in Christendom, and prepared for
battle.

There is no doubt, however, that matters
were compromised without recourse to arms.
For, among the old records is a memorandum
dated some years after, of his going " with his
man Ryck and his square-nosed dogge to meet
one Ebenezer Cock and others on the subject
of his difficulties about the lands of Matine-
cock." Whatever may have been the nature
of the compromise, it is certain that Teunis
Van Gelder retained his possessions, and trans-
mitted them to his descendants.

Years passed while he yet lived there. He
had grown gray, but not one whit less grim.
The nature of his first reception rankled in his
mind, and he held his neighbors at arm's length.
He kept a keen watch on all their movements,
ready to show his teeth at any symptom of ag-
gression. He looked upon their assault upon
his domain as but a continuation of the wrongs
which had driven him from his native city. He
was ready to renew at any moment, in his own
person, the war between Holland and England,
and was equally ready to take to his bosom
any one who avowed animosity to the English,

Tennis Van Gelder, 7

At that time, Captain Kidd, who had been
buccaneering in various parts of the worid, was
reported to have arrived upon the Spanish
Main. Rumors were also rife of his having
been seen off the shores of Long Island. At
one time he was off Montauk, heading for
Gardiner's Bay; at another at Sandy Hook.
These reports would die away, and then would
be revived by the arrival of some vessel which
had been chased by the redoubted ** Rover "
in the Caribbean Sea, and escaped by night
setting in.

Late one afternoon, a tall, gaunt courier,
mounted on a switch-tail mare, galloped
through the county in hot haste. He brought
news that Kidd had landed at Sag Harbor,
and had rifled the town. Teunis Van Gelder
rubbed his hands in keen satisfaction, and his
eye lighted up with a venomous glow. He
longed for a sight of the gallant freebooter,
who was in a manner visiting upon the English
commerce the wrongs which that nation had
inflicted upon New Amsterdam.

That same night he was aroused from his
sleep by a. report of a gun booming across the
water. He opened his casement and gazed

8 Teunis Van G elder.

out. In the distance he observed lights dan-
cing on the Sound, and apparently approaching
the land. Shortly after there was a loud hail
from the shore.

Tieunis thrust his head out of the window,
and answered by a bellow which might have
been heard a mile. Guided by his voice a
figure groped its way through the rocks and
bushes, and stopped at his door.

The Dutchman was always on the lookout
for plots and pitfalls, and was prepared for
emergencies. He seized his gun and sallied
out to meet the stranger. At the door stood
a square-built, storm-beaten fellow, with a keen,
watchful eye, a nose like a hawk's, and a mouth
like a bull-dog*s. He had a cutlass and a pair
of pistols in his belt. As the veteran eyed
him, and marked his gaunt, hard features, he
felt that he was a kindred spirit, and his heart
warmed to him. A few words sufficed to ex-
plain that he was second in command of Kidd's
vessel, which was at anchor a short distance
off and in want of supplies.

No news could have been more acceptable,
no visitor more welcome. Teunis received the
freebooter with open arms. His house and all

Teunis Van Gelder, 9

that he had were placed at his disposal. For
several days groups of slashing fellows, armed
to the teeth, were seen hanging about the
premises carousing, shooting at marks, swear-
ing hard, and making the neighborhood ring
with their revelry. Teunis was in the thick of
them, arid as they related their encounters on
the Indian Ocean, their hand-to-hand fights,
and described the din and thunder of battle,
the martial spirit of the veteran fairly broke
out, and he swore to Kidd that he loved him
as his own son.

During their sojourn the old house fairly rang
with their carousals ; and the fierce indomitable
spirit of the Dutchman, and his bitter ani-
mosity to the English, so won upon the buc-
caneer, that under a solemn injunction of
secrecy he took him into his confidence.
His want of supplies was but a pretext. His
vessel was laden with treasure, and he was in
quest of a place to secrete it.

He suggested Matinecock Point, but Van
Gelder shook his head, and cautioned him
against the marauding spirit of the neighbor-
hood. He declared that no honest man was
safe there, that the inhabitants were a hybrid

lo Tcunis Van Odder.

race, a cross between the Quaker and the steel-
trap, and that he might better trust the " Old
Boy."

The freebooter shrugged his shoulders and
remarked ** that they might trust a worse per-
son than the one just mentioned."

Teunis did not argue this last matter, but
suggested Sand's Point as more remote and a
safer place of deposit and added : " Ryck can
show you the way."

" Agreed," replied the freebooter.

That night at midnight, several boats, heavily
laden, set off. Van Gelder took a warm inter-
est in the whole proceeding, accompanied them
to the boats, and swore to watch over the treas-
ure as if it were his own. He gave minute
directions to Ryck, and stood by the shore
until the boats were hid by the darkness.

Late at night Ryck returned, grinning with
satisfaction at a broad gold piece which had
been bestowed on him. He and his master
were closeted together for more than an hour,
and they parted with a caution to secrecy on
the part of the latter, accompanied by a prom-
ise to curry his hide in case of his failure. As
Teunis was very exemplary in keeping prom-

Teunis Van Gelder. 1 1

ises of this kind, Ryck remained true to his
trust.

After the execution of Kidd it became known
to the English government that he had com-
municated to Van Gelder the spot where his
treasure was buried, and commissioners were
appointed to examine him. They found the
veteran in the extreme of age, gaunt, grisly,
with dim eyes, like an old houhd, and tottering
up and down the walk in front of his house,
supported by a withered negro, as decrepit and
time-battered as his master. He heard their
errand in savage silence. For a minute his
energies rallied at the idea of an encounter with
his old foes. It was but an expiring flash in
the socket. He refused to give them any in-
formation, and turned his back upon them.
Ryck shared all his master's antipathies, was
equally taciturn, and they departed with their
mission unaccomplished.

In a week from that time Teunis Van Gelder
was gathered to his fathers.

Ryck, after languishing about the place for a
few weeks, was found dead, sitting on his old
master's grave.

The present owner of the house, a lineal de-

12 Teunis Van Gelder,

scendant of Teunis Van Gelder, is a little, dried-
up fellow named Volkert, who seems to have
grown up behind a pair of large round, rimmed
spectacles, through which he views the world
on a magnified scale.

The feuds and animosities which had existed
between Teunis and his neighbors died with
him ; and his present descendant is regarded
by them as a kindly-disposed and well-meaning
little man, somewhat peppery in temper and
fantastic in his notions.

Much of his time was spent in out-of-the-
way research and ferreting in the dust-holes of
the past, from which he now and then would
fish up some unsavory fact or useless piece of
information. Those twilight portions of his-
tory, in which fable and fact are mingled, were
his delight. He would travel a day's journey
to visit a spot where a ghost had been seen, or
a murder committed. He regarded a super-
annuated negro as a mine of legendary wealth ;
and would hold him by the button by the
hour to get at the truth of some incident
recollected by the negro's great-grandmother,
and detailed to him when he was a boy. In
fact, his foibles were so well known, that every

Teunis Van Gelder. 13

vagabond in the country who could coin a
plausible story, half romance and half fact,
was sure of a welcome and a hearty meal in
his kitchen.

He was not a little proud of his Dutch de-
scent, and had small respect for any whose
genealogy was not, like his own, lost in the fog
which surrounded the Dutch dynasty.

His prime-minister and confidential adviser
was a gray-headed, wrinkled negro named Zeb.
He had been in his youth a sturdy fellow, but
had dried up into an old codger, who looked
like a frosted persimmon. He was tough and
leathery, with a head as hard as adamant, and
an obstinacy of disposition which required the
full strength of his skull to keep it in. He
had been born and bred on the place, and
looked upon it and his master as his own
property.

In early life he had been somewhat of a rep-
robate, so that his name and the gallows had
frequently been coupled together in a very
familiar manner ; but he had disappointed all
their prophecies, and in spite of his faults had
steered clear of the halter.

As he grew old he became proportionably

14 Teunis Van Gelder.

steady in his habits, and his evil name peeled
off. By the time he had become entirely use-
less and good-for-nothing, he had acquired
quite a good character, and of late years he
had never been known to swear when he had
his own way, nor to get drunk at his own ex-
pense. He, however, retained the habit of
shooting with the long bow, and the marvellous
character of his stories was only exceeded by
the pertinacity with which he stuck to them.

His memory was a perfect magazine of mys-
terious experiences ; of encounters with spirits
of every denomination ; and the whole neigh-
borhood of Dosoris, Matinecock, and Latting-
town, was with him a region noted for ghostly
adventure. He could point out the very tree
at Flagg Brook where Ralph Crafts had a
friendly chat with the Old Boy, as is recounted
among other curious and veracious narratives
contained in this history; and he could show
the large tulip tree at Dosoris under which
Parson Woolsey had an encounter of a more
hostile character with the same personage, in
which he so exorcised the Old Boy in bad
Latin, and raised such a din about his ears
with hard Scripture texts, that he took to

Teunis Van Gelder. 15

flight, and never dared show his hoof there
while the old clergyn^an lived.

Vqlkert Van Gelder pretended to turn an in-
credulous ear to these tales, when Zeb hap-
pened to speak of them in public; and put his
old retainer off with a " pish " ; but he always
took occasion, when no one was by, to glean
from him the full particulars. These were
committed to writing, and stowed away in an
ancient bookcase mounted with brass, which
is a perfect repository of abstruse history ; and
as Matinecock and its neighborhood was more
i^ubject to visitations of this, character than the
j3est of the world, the collection had become
quite vbluminoiUiSi

Zeb, however, had a crony in his own sphere,
though not of his own color, equally versed in
legendary lore. This was an old leathern-
skinned fellow; with a red nose and a moist eye,
loi.the name of Nick Wanzer.

Nick was bom and bred, in Matinecock.
Many of his family had gone off to seek their
Iprtunes in other parts of the world. Nick
quoted the old saw, " A rolling stone gathers no
moss,*' and stayed at home. He grew no richer,
but in process of time he certainly acquired a

1 6 Teunis Van Gelder,

kind of moss-grown look, as if he were reaping
the reward of his resolution.

He was addicted to strong drink and long
stories ; and by dint of constant indulgence in
both, it became a matter of doubt whether his
head or his stories were the toughest. He
was usually to be met with on the borders of
the Dosoris mill-pond, with a fishing-rod across
his shoulder, or trudging along the sand bars
of the Long Island Sound with a slouch-tail
dog at his heels. He belonged to that class of
worthies, one or two of whom hang about
every country village, and who drift through
life always in sight, living no one knows how
or where, and who usually wind up their career
by being found dead under a hedge or in some
hay-mow.

In his youth he had been a harum-scarum
fellow, a keen sportsman, and a persevering
fisherman. Every rock, from the Stepping
Stones to Lloyd's Neck, was as familiar to
him as his own dwelling, and there was not a
swamp, or nook of woodland, which he had not
traversed with dog and gun.

He had been terribly harried in the early
part of his life, by a termagant wife, but he

Teunis Van Gelder. 17

had at last deposited her in the Lattingtown
churchyard, with a heavy stone over her, to
commemorate her virtues and to keep her
quiet.

He had been too much cowed by stringent
petticoat govemmetit, ever to be the man that
he was before his marriage ; but it was a great
weight off his mind to know that his wife
was at rest, as well as himself. From that time
he had been his own master, and loitered about
the country, attending to everybody's business
except his own. When the weather was fine
and the Sound smooth he and Zeb passed
whole mornings in a rickety boat, paddling
about in search of fish. When the fish did not
bite, the worthies might be descried upon one
of the rocks at Matinecock, philosophizing over
the past, while Nick's dog slept in the sunshine
at their feet.

Of late Volkert had shown a strong yearning
toward Nick. There was something in his
good-for-nothing character which harmonized
with the taste of Volkert, who had a weak spot
in his affections for vagabonds. Nick, from a
casual loiterer about the place, gradually be-
came an appendage to it : running of errands,

1 8 Teuftis Van Gelder.

catching a mess of fish, ringing the noses of his
pigs, and making himself generally useful. But
the great secret of their intimacy was a certain
adventure which Nick had met with, many
years previously, in which Teunis Van Gelder
bore a conspicuous part. It did not speak
very well for the old pioneer, but Volkert took
a strange pride in the evil odor which hung
around the skirts of his ancestor. He forth-
with took Nick by the hand, and although the
tale was scouted by many as the fabrication of
Nick's drunken brain, .Volkert cross-examined
him faithfully, took the whole down in writing,
decided it to be both plausible and true, and
forthwith deposited it among the archives of
his historic lore, from which I have drawn it.
The adventure was as follows :

NICK WANZER'S ADVENTURE.

NICK had been passing an evening, many
years since, at a husking frolic. Like
most persons who are good for nothing else, he
was in his element there. He was a lusty dare-
devil fellow then, ready for a fight or a frolic,
and full of that rash, yet jovial recklessness
which makes friends of the men, and plays the
very deuce among the other sex. The party
had been merry ; and when the time came for
breaking up, their merriment had become
boisterous. Nick, overflowing with good
cheer, took his leave of his host, shook hands
with the mothers, kissed the prettiest of their
daughters, and set out on his return to his own
quarters.

The road was dark and gloomy, but he
knew every inch of it. He was mellow with
ale, apple brandy, and hard cider. He knew
that he had to pass through a drear neighbor-

19

20 Nick Warners Adventure.

hood, and all the tales which he had heard of
ghosts and hobgoblins and Kidd and old Teunis
Van Gelder, were circulating freely through
his brain, and, as he afterward acknowledged,
what with the spirits within and the spirits
without, his head was in somewhat of a
turmoil.

He had a small boat drawn up in a creek
near Matinecock Point, and as the road be-
came somewhat unsteady as he proceeded, he
determined to return home by water. Taking
a short cut across the fields and floundering
through a swamp or two, he finally reached
the creek, drew out his boat, and pushed out
into the Sound.

It was one of those quiet, still nights, when
there was scarcely a ripple on the water ; every
star was plainly reflected on its surface, and
the moon hung in the sky like a huge globe of
silver.

Nick pulled lazily along, thinking at one
time of a farmer's daughter with whom he had
passed a few love passages behind the door ;
then of the ale and cider and apple brandy ;
then of the tales of Kidd, with which an old
black fiddler had regaled them at intervals

Nick Wanzers Adventure. 2 1

during the evening ; until he had got the ap-
ple brandy and the farmer's daughter and Kidd
and his treasure terribly jumbled together. He
had been wondering where the freebooter
could have put his money ; and whether it
was in gold dust or in bars or coin ; and was in
deep speculation as to whether it would be
possible for him to discover it, dig it up, buy
up the whole country round, and marry the girl
just spoken of, when his attention was arrested
by a loud hail.

" Boat ahoy ! boat ahoy ! "

The sound appeared to come from the Point
at Matinecock, which was nearly half a mile
distant ; and yet the voice seemed to be
scarcely fifty feet off. Nick dropped his oars
and listened.

" B-o-a^t a-h-o-o-o-y I " again sounded across
the water from the same direction, and yet
apparently close at hand.

Nick looked about him in every direction, to
ascertain if any other craft were in sight. The
moon shone brilliantly, and its reflection rested
like solid silver on the water ; not a thing was
to be seen.

" It 's very strange/* thought he, " but it

22 Nick Wanzers Adventure.

can't cost much to answer/' So he put his
hand to his mouth and gave the response :
" Hallo ! "

" Come ashore ! " was the rejoinder in the
same singular tone.

Nick did not altogether relish the summons,
but he was a good-natured fellow, so he turned
his boat toward the land. As he approached
it, he saw a figure seated on a rock at the wa-
ter's edge. He had supposed that the hail
might have come from one of the neighbors
who wanted a lift on his way home. But on
nearer approach, he saw that the person on the
rock was a stranger. By the light of the
moon, he appeared to be a gaunt weather-
beaten man, dressed in an outlandish rig such
as was worn by seamen of the previous century.
A dark hat was slouched over his face, and in
his hand he held a club.

Nick eyed him for a moment, waiting for
him to speak. But he sat croning over some
sepulchral old sea ditty and glowering at Nick
with a stony stare that made his flesh creep.

" Do you want me ? " at last inquired Nick.

" Not I," replied the other in a gruff voice.
" You want me.'*

Nick Warners Adventure. 23

"You? I never laid eyes on you before,"
said Nick.

" I Ve been at your elbow for the last half-
hour ; ever since you were thinking of Kidd's
money/*

" Whew-w ! '* Nick drew a long, low whistle,
and laid his finger with a sort of drunken grav-
ity on his nose.

" Then you know what I was thinking of ? "

The other nodded.

" You 're not Kidd ? "

The other shook his head.

" Nor Teunis Van Gelder ? *'

" No."

" Then you must be " Nick paused as he

did not like to be disrespectful. " You must
be "

" No matter who I am," replied the stranger.

"And you know where Kidd*s money is?"
inquired Nick.

The other nodded. " I was boatswain with
him in the Adventure Galley, and a share of it
is mine, and I keep an eye on it.

Nick pondered over this disclosure, as care-
fully as the muddled state of his brain would
allow, and then said in a tone which was in-
tended to be insinuating :

24 Nick Warners Adventure.

" If you and Kidd were shipmates, so long
ago — so very long ago — ^you must be very old
— or — or — or " He hesitated.

''Dead, ** said the other— "/^;«.'*

Nick was so much staggered by this blunt
confession, and by having been thus unexpect-
edly brought face to face with a worthy, — so long
defunct, — that he was at a loss what to say next.

At last he continued in the same insinuating
tone:

" Perhaps, as you are dead, and as Kidd is
dead, and there is no one alive who can take
care of that money, it would be prudent for
you to tell me where it is, so that I can keep a
watch over it for you, when you are away.*'

The stranger gave vent to a low, sepulchral
chuckle, as he replied :

" Dying does not make a man a fool."

Nick hastened to remove any wrong con-
struction which might have been placed on his
words by adding :

" Besides, come what may, you shall have
your full share."

This last remark appeared to have some
weight with the stranger. He hesitated — at
last he said gravely :

Nick Wanzers Adventure. 25

" When Lwas alive, Mr. Wanzer, I was a man
of honor. I promised never to tell where that
gold is. Do you think that my being dead,
alters the case ? "

" Of course it does," said Nick ; " and being
already dead, as you say you are, I suppose
that whatever is to happen to you has hap-
pened before this, so that a little mistake of
that kind cannot hurt you much."

" Besides," added Nick, " as I said before, if
I get the money, I would do something hand-
some for you — ^very handsome."

Nick's argument seemed to have some
weight, for the other hesitated ; at last he
said :

" I don't mind Kidd so much. He 's bad
enough, and has some desperate fellows leagued
with him ; but the worst one of all is a hard-
headed old Dutchman, one Teunis Van Gelder.
Since he came into our quarters, he and Kidd
have struck up a kind of partnership, and I Ve
led a dog's life with them."

" But they can't use the money now," urged
Nick.

"Can any miser use his^oney?" inquired
the other ; " yet no miser will part with it.

26 Nick Warners Adventure.

They like to know it *s there. I tell you," said
he, striking his club hard on the ground, and
speaking with much emphasis, " if they lost
that money, they 'd make my quarters too hot
to hold me."

Nick doubted whether that were possible ;
but he was too shrewd to mention his surmise ;
and besides he was unwilling to give up the
chance of getting hold of the freebooter's
treasure. So he asked :

" How can they find it out, unless you tell
them ? / would not."

The stranger seemed impressed by this
promise.

" Can I rely on you, Mr. Wanzer ? "

Nick was vociferous in vindication of his
trustworthiness.

" But I must have my share," suggested the
stranger. " I will do nothing without it."

" I have promised — and have it you shall, as
soofi as I finger the cash," replied Nick.

" Enough," answered the other. " Jump into
your boat and pull for Sand's Point. I *11 meet
you there."

Nick waited for no second bidding. He
sprang into his boat, pushed off from the shore.

rstf

Nick Warners Adventure. 2 7

and tugged lustily at the oars. The exercise
had the effect of taking off some of the fumes
of the liquor which he had drank, and of bring-
ing him to his senses. When the boat grounded
on the beach he found the stranger standing
there with a shovel in his hand. He beckoned
to Nick, who followed him until they came to
where a huge boulder, known as Kidd's Rock,
juts out from the Point. Here he paused,
threw the shovel to Nick, and told him to dig.

Nick was disposed to parley ; but he. felt the
stony eyes fixed upon him, and his heart failed.
He dug lustily, throwing out the sand in great
shovelfuls. At last he struck something solid.
Eagerly clearing away the dirt, he discovered a
chest, secured by iron bands. He struck it with
the shovel, and could hear the jingle of coin.

" Now, then," said the stranger, jumping into
the hole and planting himself firmly on the
chest. " There 's the money. Remember your
promise. Now give me your hand on the bar-
gain. It 's no bargain until we have crossed
hands."

Nick extended his hand ; and already was
that of the stranger reached to grasp it, when
a loud, unearthly shout rang through the air.

28 Nick Warners AdveiUure.

Nick bounded from the hole at a single leap.
The next instant, with a yell, two figures
pounced upon the stranger in the pit. There
were appalling cries and all the struggle of
fierce encounter. They seemed to breathe fire
and smoke at each other. At one time the
fight raged in the hole, then it seemed to be up
the bank near Kidd's Rock, and at another
time in the air. In the moonlight Nick could
see his friend hard beset ; and he noticed that
he suffered most from a grim old fellow in a
cocked hat, with a slash across his nose. The
other was square built, with pistols in his belt
and a hanger at his side.

As Nick doubted how the battle would end,
he quietly slipped into his boat, put off a short
distance from the shore, and rested on his oars
to watch the result.

In a few minutes he heard his name shouted
from the beach ; but he was too wary to be en-
trapped by any feeling of sympathy. He kept
silent. The noise and uproar lasted for a short
time longer, and then grew more and more dis-
tant, until it died away in the woods of Great
Neck.

Nick now plied his oars vigorously, occasion-

Nick Warners Advertture. 29

ally pausing to listen. At the same time hewas
not free from an apprehension that on looking
round he might find his late visitor stationed
in the bow of his boat. But he reached Matine-
cock in safety.

As he stepped ashore he was not a little sur-
prised at discovering the stranger seated on a
rock, apparently as cool as if nothing had hap-
pened ; but on closer examination Nick ob-
served that his dress was very much dilapidated,
and his face begrimed with smut and dirt.

" I hope you 're not hurt," said he, in a
tone which was meant to be sympathizing.
" Those fellows were a little too much for
you."

" I told you how it would be," said the other
in a savage voice. " They got wind of it some-
how."

" Who are they ? "

" No matter."

** And the money?" inquired Nick.

" It 's where you left it," replied the other.
" You can get it if you like. You know our
bargain. Give me your hand."

"Not until I handle the money," replied
Nick. " And unless you are more lucky than

30 Nick Warners Adventure.

you have been to-night, I don't think you *11 put
n^e in the way of doing it in a hurry/'

" Mr. Wanzer," said the other, " do you mean
to break our bargain ?"

"Where 's the money?" demanded Nick in
reply. " If you mean that I should take it while
those two unpleasant gentlemen are mounting
guard over it, you are much mistaken. I will

see you to "; Nick hesitated how to finish

his sentence. ** And if you mean that I am to
get it as I can, and be pestered by those fellows
as long as I live, — I won't do it. Do you think
I did not know old Teunis Van Gelder ; I 've
seen his picture in the house too often. If he 's
too much for you, I 'd like to know how I would
come off in a scuffle with him ; and if he and
Kidd hunt in couples, I '11 have nothing to with
it."

Nick struck his feet resolutely on the side of
his boat to give emphasis to his words.

" You 're resolved ? " said the other, sternly.

" I am," said Nick.

" Then take this—'

He raised his club to strike, but at that mo-
ment the same loud, unearthly yell, which had
startled him before, rang through the air, and

Nick Warners Adventure. 3 1

two figures sprang toward them ; one in a
cocked hat, gray and grim, the other armed
to the teeth. Before the club could descend,
the stranger bounded from the rock and disap-
peared in the direction of Dosoris, the two fol-
lowing in full cry at his heels.

Nick hurried off and made the best of his way
to his cabin, where he was found in the morning
in a sleep so sound that some thought it might
have been the result of deep potations, but
which Nick himself attributed entirely to the
excitement of the scene which he had gone
through at Sand's Point and Matinecock.

In a note in the margin of the above manu-
script, my respected relative remarked that Mr.
Volkert Van Gelder, after full and mature in-
vestigation of the matter, had come to the con-
clusion that the adventure of Nick Wanzer was
not a mere fabrication, but an actual occurrence.

He was forced to this conclusion by strong
circumstantial evidence : for it was established
beyond a doubt, that Wanzer was at a husking
frolic on the very night alluded to ; that he had
set out for his home late, and somewhat in-
volved in liquor ; and also that he did own a

32 Nick Warners Adventure.

boat which usually lay in a creek at Peacock's
Point.

Nick Wanzer himself pointed out the rock
on which the stranger sat when he first made
overtures to him ; and the situation of Kidd's
Rock at Sand's Point is a matter of public no-
toriety. Under these circumstances Mr. Van
Gelder felt that to express further doubt would
be to cast an unjust imputation upon the char-
acter of a worthy and well-meaning citizen. .

In commenting farther Mr. Van Gelder ob-
served, with his usual discrimination and acute-
ness, that it was a very nice point to decide.
That there certainly was strong corroborative
evidence of the truth of the story ; and that
although it was out of the usual course of
things, yet Matinecock was an unusual kind of
place, and events might transpire there which
would not happen elsewhere. Under these cir-
cumstances, and after fully weighing the evi-
dence, he thought that Wanzer's statement was
worthy of implicit belief by all persons who
are not stupidly incredulous.

DERRICK VAN DAM.

AMONG other documents, I came across a
m'anuscript in the handwriting of Mr.
Volkert Van Gelder, relating to the founder of
that family at Matinecock. In it were set forth
some of the troubles and annoyances which had
beset that distinguished man, when in bitter-
ness of spirit he turned his back upon his na-
tive city, and buried himself and his grief in
the recesses of Matinecock.

The various aggressions of the pioneers who
had preceded him, and who had endeavored to
deprive him of his territories, rankled in his
mind long after these difficulties had been ad-
justed. Ebenezer Cock, the ringleader in
these acts of hostility, was a tall, stiff,
raw-boned New Englander, with a face like
parchment, a high nose, with eyes close to-
gether, and looking straight forward, like those
of a lobster. He was one of your hard-headed,
wordy disputants, who never become excited,

33

34 Derrick Van Dam.

but are endowed with untiring perseverance
and immeasurable wind.

To him Teunis Van Gelder bore a mortal
antipathy, for he had not only laid claim to the
land on which the Dutchman had settled, but
had added the further insult of proving his
claim to be just. The claim might have been
borne, but the insult was intolerable. But if
Ebenezer had powers of argument, the Dutch-
man had tenacity of purpose ; and the warfare
was carried on with cautious perseverance on
one side, and on the other with vehement ani-
mosity, backed by an obstinacy which had
never been known to yield.

In the midst of this turmoil he had no friend
nor confidant, except his trusty negro Ryck,
who had grown up with him, had followed him
in battle, and now shared his exile. Together
they used to patrol the place, keeping a watch-
ful eye on the adjacent country, the old man
recounting the glories of his native city, and
thanking God that his only son was safe in
Holland, where he could hear nothing spoken
except his mother tongue, and was beyond the
contaminating influence of the conquerors of
his beloved town.

Derrick Van Dam. 35

At this time the monotony of his life was
interrupted by the arrival of Derrick Van
Dam, a distant kinsman, who had recently re-
turned from abroad. He was a gallant, stal-
wart fellow, of about three-and-twenty. He
presented himself one day to the astonished
eyes of Teunis and the admiring ones of Ryck,
without notice or word of warning. He had
been so long absent that the veteran did
not recognize him, but, instinctively, was gird-
ing up his loins for battle, when the light, ring-
ing laugh of his relative stole across his ear
like a strain of long-forgotten music, touching
some chord in his heart which had been long
unstrung^ The old man took him to his arms,
and, with a feeling of almost childish desola-
tion, wept upon his breast. The weakness was
but momentary. The next moment his mar-
tial spirit revived ; and he forthwith began to
calculate how much strength this recruit would
add to his garrison. To his kinsman he re-
counted his grievances, and described the perse-
cutions of the myrmidons of the neighborhood,
with so much earnestness, that the feelings of
the young man were fairly enlisted, and he
pledged himself to stand by his ancient friend

36 Derrick Van Dam.

through thick and thin. He scouted the idea
of defensive warfare, but suggested an im-
mediate onslaught upon the enemy ; that they
should be smitten hip and thigh, and that par-
ticular attention should be shown to the inde-
fatigable Ebenezer Cock. He proposed to
sack the city where he dwelt. The dim eye of
the veteran fairly glowed to find an ally so
much after his own heart. He applauded the
spirit which dictated the proposition, but sug-
gested, as an obstacle, that there was no city
to sack.

" What can we do ? Has he no property ? "

" Yes, large lands and crops."

** Has he any sons ? I '11 challenge them ! "

The veteran shook his head. " He has but
one child — a daughter.'*

" Is she handsome ? "

Teunis replied that she was.

" Say no more ! " was the prompt answer.
" I '11 make love to her. The thing 's settled ! "

Teunis regarded his confederate with a
shrewd eye. Whatever his thoughts may have
been, he kept them to himself ; and when his
visitor retired, he rubbed his hands with an air
of keen enjoyment as he bade him good-night.

Derrick Van Dam. 37

No time was lost in carrying out their war-
like resolutions ; and the success of the young
man in making his mark was such that not a
settler within ten miles but had heard of him.
The women declared that he ought to be
ashamed of himself, and the men that he ought
to be hung. So vainglorious did old Teunis
become, that he began to entertain vague ideas
of laying claim to the whole territory between
Matinecock and Flushing, and of expelling
every Cock from the country !

While Derrick Van Dam was thus running
riot and carrying dismay throughout the land,
all idea of attack upon the domicile of Ebene-
zer seemed to have passed from his mind.

His hardihood, what a terrible fellow he was
in a hand-to-hand encounter, what a fine-look-
ing fellow he was too, his generosity to all about
him, with the single exception of the Cock
family, against whom he had vowed undying
animosity, were the constant topics of talk in
the sparsely settled district, and were not long
in reaching the ears of the daughter and heir-
ess of Ebenezer Cock.

Freelove, for such was her name, had grown
up beneath the shadow of her father, and the

38 Derrick Van Dam.

acid eye and warm temper of a step-mother.
Under this combination of heat and cold she
had ripened into a fine blooming maiden, warm
of heart, somewhat quick of temper, and as un-
conscious of her charms as young beauties
usually are. She was reputed to be one of the
best brought-up girls on Long Island, having
had every fault carefully held up to her disap-
probation by her watchful step-mother, whose
rough tongue was. the terror of the country, and
had rasped Ebenezer down to skin and bone.

When rumor carried the menaces of Derrick
Van Dam to the ears of the maiden, she es-
poused the cause of her father with great
vivacity. She vowed undying animosity against
Teunis Van Gelder, was particularly bitter in
her animadversions on his young ally, and
usually concluded by stating that she would
like to have an opportunity of giving him a
piece of her mind. Whether the fear of en-
countering her sharp tongue prevented Derrick
from carrying out his menace, I cannot say ;
but certain it is, that although he had occasion-
ally seen the girl near her father's house, and
had been not a little struck with her chcirms,
he continued to keep aloof from her, having no

Derrick Van Dam. 39

doubt learned, in the course of his foreign
travel, that a woman's tongue is a weapon diffi-
cult to parry, especially if she be young and
fair.

The girl soon had other matters to think of.
She had grown up with that antipathy to the
opposite sex, which is the peculiarity of young
girls, and vowed that she would never marry ;
yet the fame of her beauty had extended far
beyond her paternal domains, and several young
vagabonds, of that class who usually admire
young maidens, had made overtures for her
hand. In reply to these, Ebenezer put on his
spectacles, looked them full in the face, inves-
tigated the length of their purses, and returned
a decided negative. Nor did he trouble his
daughter by communicating their proposals.

At length a new candidate made his appear-
ance. He was a stern, iron-strung soldier, who
had been a hard fighter in the Indian wars.
He was named Seth Pinchon, and was pos-
sessed of a large tract of land not far from
Oyster Bay, consisting principally of sand bars
and salt meadows, and prolific of clams and
mosquitoes.

Seth Pinchon had been the right-hand man

40 Derrick Van Dam.

of Captain John Underbill in many of his bat-
tles with the Indians both on the main-land
and on Long Island. He had made himself
memorable in the desperate fight with the
Massapequa Indians, when their fort was de-
stroyed and the power of the tribe broken.
He was gaunt and rawboned, with a face
seamed with scars, and a complexion hardened
and tanned by exposure and service, until it
had assumed both the color and consistency of
sole-leather. He had also been an active parti-
san against the Dutch in the disputes between
them and the English.

As long as the Dutch had maintained their
domination over, any part of the island, these
broils had given him constant occupation, oc-
casionally varied by his chastising a refractory
Indian tribe which might have dared to main-
tain that their territories were their own.

However, the battle with the Massapequas
was the last great struggle of the Long Island
Indians. The Dutch, too, were subdued, and
Seth Pinchon retired to his lair at Oyster Bay,
near the abode of his old commander John Un-
derbill. His occupation being gone, be be-
thought himself that he was becoming stricken

Derrick Van Dam. 41

in years, and that it was high time to settle in
life.

In one of his marauds he had fallen in with
the daughter of Ebenezer Cock ; and although
he was not prone to tender feelings, yet she
had made such an impression upon him, that
now, when the pressure of his various avoca-
tions was removed, her image rose in his mind
as that of one fitted to be his future helpmeet.
He set about the accomplishment of his object
with that directness of purpose which was his
great characteristic.

Having bestowed more than usual care upon
his person, he mounted his horse and directed
his course to the dwelling of Ebenezer Cock.
It was a quiet, snug little farm-house, built
upon the borders of a forest and commanding
a wide view of fields of grain, which sloped off
to the Sound. Every thing about it indicated
ease and comfort, for Ebenezer was known to
be a thrifty man.

As the cavalier rode up, Freelove met him at
the door with a beaming smile. She had no
suspicion that she was at the bottom of his
visit, but the renown of the campaigner excited
in her a desire to obtain from him that admira-

42 Derrick Van Dam.

tion which the gentler sex is apt to crave from
those who have made a name by courage and
prowess in arms.

Seth Pinchon felt more embarrassment at her
salutation than he would have done in storm-
ing a fortress. He dismounted and shambled
into the house with a sideling gait, having more
the air of a sheep-stealer than of one on his
way to storm a fair lady's heart. Ebenezer
Cock received him with cordiality, but with the
erectness peculiar to his race. He heard his
proposal with stem satisfaction, for he felt that
amid the aggressions of Teunis Van Gelder, a
son-in-law of a calibre like that of the staunch
campaigner at his elbow would be a powerful
auxiliary. He accepted his offer at once, and
told him that he might consider the matter
settled.

There was one, however, who heard the
proposal and its acceptance with very dif-
ferent feelings. This was Freelove herself.
She had not accompanied the soldier into
the room, but had lingered at the door, and
had overheard all that had passed. With a
sinking heart she stole off to her own room,
and kept out of sight until the heavy tramp of

Derrick Van Dam. 43

hoofs told her that Seth Pinchon was depart-
ing. From the window she caught sight of his
erect figure as he rode off.

In the form of the fair Freelove there was
not a little spirit ; and every feeling was in arms
at being thus unceremoniously disposed of. She
determined that the grim warrior who had so
little knowledge of female nature as to over-
look her wishes in such a matter, should meet
his match. She kept her own counsel, but
maintained a keen watch over the movements
of her father.

No sooner was it noised about that Seth
Pinchon was to carry off the much-coveted
prize, than the whole country from Flushing
to Huntington was in a blaze of excitement.
At last rumors of the intended wedding reached
the ears of Derrick Van Dam, who had been
for some time past ensconced in the fortress at
Matinecock, hatching new projects of mischief.
He forthwith sallied out for information ; nor
was he long in learning that though betrothed
to Seth Pinchon, the heart of the girl had little
share in the matter. Had she been about to
wed one of her own age, and to whom she went
heart in hand, a spirit of high-bred chivalry, a

44 Derrick Van Dam.

dash of which was mingled with his reckless
character, would have prevented Derrick, not-
withstanding his former menace, from interfer-
ing. As it was, he looked upon Seth Pinchon
as little better than one of the corsairs, who
were scouring the Mediterranean and Adriatic,
and making prey of every fair maiden upon
whom they could lay hands. He did not hesi-
tate to declare his intention to take the field
against his military rival, and to proclaim openly
that Freelove was the fairest maiden on Long
Island, and that he would marry her in spite of
Seth Pinchon. This menace reached the ears
of Freelove. At any other time it would have
excited her ire ; but matters were approaching
a crisis with her, and the prospect of escape, even
by being carried off by a scapegrace whom she
had never seen, and whom she had denounced
on all occasions, seemed a positive relief.

Still day after day slipped by. Rumors of
Derrick's forays into the territories of the Cocks
and the Lattings and the Frosts, the Wrights
and the Weeks, his utter disregard of territorial
rights and Indian grants, rang through the
country ; but no incursion had extended inside
the dwelling of the Cocks, nor had there been

Derrick Van Dam. 45

the slightest demonstration of a more tender
character.

In the meantime Ebenezer Cock's wrath had
increased to a white heat. He declared that
Derrick was no better than a freebooter, and
that he would have him hung if he got him in
his power. Freelove's heart sank at these
menaces. It was heavy, too, on her own ac-
count ; for the house was alive with the bustle
of preparation for the wedding. Dried apples
were hanging in festoons at the windows;
pumpkins were brought in for pies; sheets,
towelling, and all the various items of house-
wifery which denoted that a daughter and an
heiress was to launch her bark in life, were
about her. Amid all, she drooped and the
bloom faded from her cheek.

In vain, well-meaning friends endeavored to
cheer her by sounding the praises of her in-
tended bridegroom. They told her how many
Indians he had scalped, how many towns he
had sacked, and recounted his numerous ad-
ventures by flood and field. Had these ex-
ploits been connected with a young and hand-
some person, it is not improbable that they
i&ight have added to his merits in her eyes ;

46 Derrick Van Dam.

but as they brought to her mind only the
gaunt, battle-worn exterior of Seth Pinchon,
she turned away and said that he must be a
cruel wretch. As the fated hour approached
she would steal away and wander through the
woods, endeavoring to plan some mode of es-
cape, yet feeling that her plans and schemes
must fail beneath the iron will of those who
controlled her.

One afternoon, under the influence of these
feelings, she wandered off, too much absorbed
in her own thoughts to notice whither she di-
rected her steps. She had gone farther than
usual and was about turning homeward when a
twig, snapping beneath a footstep, caught her
attention.

Indians at that time still lurked in the forests,
and suspicious characters were known to be
prowling around the settlements, living equally
by plundering the savage and the white man.
With a feeling of trepidation the girl turned in

e direction of the sound, and beheld a young
mah, standing within a few feet of her. He was.
gazing^^ her with a look of extreme surprise.

The strang?f«4ised his hat respectfully. " I think
I have the honoroTltddressing Miss Cock ? **

Derrick Van Dam. 47

There was something in his air which in-
spired confidence ; and although he gazed at
her with an expression of intense admiration,
yet his tone was so respectful that she could
not take offence. Who could he be? He
was evidently a stranger in this part of the
country. His appearance was not that of one
brought up in the wilds of Long Island.

While these thoughts were passing through
her mind, she was directing her steps homeward.
The stranger hinted that improper characters
were said to be prowling about, and suggested
that he should escort her until she arrived within
sight of her father's house. The girl seemed
to acquiesce, and he took his station at her
side. By degrees as they went on, their steps
became more and more slow ; their conversa-
tion was carried on in a tone so low, that al-
though there were no listeners, it was scarcely
above a whisper. The color in the girl's cheek,
too, came and went as she listened. Once or
twice, in the course of the conversation, the
name of Seth Pinchon passed between them.
Gradually the stranger spoke more earnestly.
Freelove did not look up ; her eyes were fixed
on the ground. The manner of the other be-

48 Derrick Van Dam.

came more urgent ; it was evident that he was
making a passionate appeal. " In this hope,"
added he in conclusion to some remark, " I
have lingered here from day to day, and until
now I have watched in vain."

The girl ventured to steal a glance at the
handsome eyes which were bent upon her own ;
her heart throbbed at the gaze which they en-
countered. It was evident that the declara-
tions which he had poured into her ear were
genuine. None other could come from a per-
son with such eyes ; but as yet the stranger
had mentioned only his love, not his name ; it
could do no harm to know it, even if she had
to tell him that he must be disappointed in his
hopes. So, with a fluttering heart and a faint
voice, she said it was very odd that such a pro-
posal should come from an entire stranger.

Her companion hesitated, and stood looking
on the ground. At last he said sadly :

" I fear my name is not one that you will
like to hear. I fear it now, a thousand times
more than I did an hour ago ; for then I might
have forgotten you, but now "

He did not finish the sentence, but the sad
gesture which accompanied his words, con-

Derrick Van Dam. 49

vinced Freelove that if he lived to the age of
Methuselah, her image would never be effaced
from his bosom. She stood expecting his re-
ply with some misgiving ; and yet with it was
mingled an odd feeling, which she did not un-
derstand, but which she knew that she did not
entertain for Seth.

" Well," said the stranger, drawing a long
breath, " I am Derrick Van Dam ! *'

A vague surmise that such might be the fact
had already entered the mind of the girl, and
for an instant her heart beat wildly ; the next
moment she became deadly pale. Derrick
seized her hand in both of his, and poured forth
his protestations of devotion in language that
might have melted half-a-dozen female hearts ;
but there is something unaccountable in the
ways of a woman, and he who would trace out
the windings of her heart, must be a more pro-
found philosopher than I am ; for, although
but a short time before she had been hoping
and longing for this very occurrence, as her last
chance of escape, yet now, when Derrick stood
before her, glowing with manly beauty far
greater than she had expected, and had ven-
tured to utter the words which she had been so

50 Derrick Van Dam.

anxious to hear, she received him with an air
of chilling reserve, and did not fail to let him
know that his boast of wooing and winning her
had reached her ears. Indeed, she carried her
imprudence farther ; for she concluded by tell-
ing him that he might look for a bride among
those who held themselves more cheaply than
she held herself.

Derrick's hopes, which had been high, were
completely dashed by this sudden change of
tone. He was a bold fellow where hard blows
and round knocks were going on ; but his heart
was as tender as a child's. Her reception cut
him to the quick ; for all that he had of love,
he had unconsciously bestowed upon her; and
from dreaming and pondering over her perfec-
tions, he had become deeply involved. Here
were all his day-dreams scattered to the winds.
He did not understand the caprices of the lit-
tle heart which was beating beneath the trim
bodice before him; nor could he fathom the
glance of the soft yet mischievous eye, which
was already relenting, as it watched him. So
he took her hand respectfully and said : " I
suppose it was wrong to speak as I did, and
you have done right to tell me so. I am a

Derrick Van Dam. 5 1

stranger to you ; and yet I have loved you well
— ^more than I can ever love any one else. I
should not have spoken to you to-day, but I
had heard that you were to be married soon —
against your will, — and the time was so short
that I dared not wait. It would have been
better if I had. — Good-bye."

He bent over her dimpled hand, and pressed
it to his lips. As he did so the soft, warm fin-
gers clasped his own. He looked up ; two
dark eyes, moist with tears, were looking in
his face.

" Don't go, don't go," was all that she could
utter. The next moment she gave way to a
paroxysm of tears and buried her face in her
hands.

Derrick was beside himself. He reiterated
his protestations of attachment ; he swore that
he would never leave her; he begged her to
let him know the cause of her sorrow. If there
was any thing she would like to have done, he
would do it. If there was any one whom she
would like to have exterminated, he would
strangle him with pleasure ; she had but to say
the word, for he was her most abject slave.

Freelove gradually became composed under

52 Derrick Van Dam.

these assurances, and communicated the cause
of her trouble — her approaching marriage with
Seth Pinchon. She said that matters were
progfressing with alarming speed.

" We are to be married in a week."

" A week ? " exclaimed Derrick. " It 's an
age. I *11 marry you in an hour."

It cannot be denied that a smile of satisfac-
tion brightened the face of the girl at the ardor
of her youthful suitor ; and that his headlong
mode of courtship was playing the very deuce
with the prospects of Seth Pinchon. It is use-
less to dwell upon a scene where both were of
accord, and nothing but maiden modesty pre-
vented the girl from yielding to the wishes of
her new suitor. Still it was agreed between
them, that this interview should be kept secret,
and that they should meet on the following
day, to devise means of thwarting her father
and Seth. The propriety of making a formal
demand of her hand was suggested by Derrick ;
but the girl seemed to fear that it might hasten
her marriage with Seth. No conclusion was
arrived at, except that she pledged herself to
become Mrs. Van Dam at all hazards.

Matters being thus adjusted between them,

Derrick Van Dam, 53

and sealed in due form, Derrick mounted his
horse, which had been tied to a tree close at
hand, and galloped oflF to Matinecock to take
Teunis Van Gelder into his confidence, while
the fair Freelove stole back to her home with a
heart lighter than it had been since the shadow
of Seth Pinchon had first darkened her thresh-
old. Teunis listened to his confederate's story
with a kind of paternal interest. A feeling of
grim satisfaction pervaded his bosom at the
idea of circumventing Ebenezer and his hard-
fighting ally. Yet for a moment his eye was
troubled, and placing his hard, brown finger
on the arm of the young man, he looked full
in his face as he said : " Remember ! she is
but a girl ; you would not wrong her? **

" God forbid ! " was the earnest reply.

" Then I 'm with you. But you had better
marry her without asking Ebenezer. It would
save much trouble and a great waste of words.
He 's a very windy fellow."

This advice harmonized well with the wishes
of Derrick, and he concluded to sleep on it and
to make up his mind in the morning. The re-
sult of the night's deliberation was a determina-
tion to obtain a second interview v/ith Free-

54 Derrick Van Dam.

love, to reconnoitre the ground again, and to
be guided by circumstances. In the meantime
it was necessary to keep a watchful eye over
Ebenezer and Seth ; for at that time a species
of law, administered in later days by Judge
Lynch, was in vogue on the borders ; and Der-
rick felt that with Ebenezer and Seth as judge
and jury, and himself as the culprit, the law
would be rigidly enforced. He was, however,
a person not apt to trouble himself about
grievances which might never occur; and be-
sides, there was something pleasant in the bare
idea of invading the stronghold of the Cocks,
and carrying off their treasure. He was raised
above all paltry considerations of danger by
the confessions which he had drawn from the
fair Freelove on the previous day. He set out
with a word of caution from Teunis to enter
into no arguments with old Cock, and with a
hint from Ryck " to keep his eyes skinned."
He went on foot, the better to escape observa-
tion, and reached his place of destination with-
out meeting a single person. For some time he
kept in the woods near the house, watching for
the girl. He was there at the appointed hour,
yet she had not arrived. He cleared his throat ;

4 •

Derrick Van Dam. 55

he whistled, and made various demonstrations
to attract her attention in case she were con-
cealed in the neighborhood, but no Freelove
appeared. He felt certain that something must
be wrong, and resolved to approach the house.
He stole cautiously up to a window, raised his
head above the sill and looked in. As he did
so, he encountered not the face of Freelove,
but the grim, scarred visage of Seth Pinchon,
who with instinctive readiness for emergencies,
seized him by the throat ; at the same time he
called out for assistance. Derrick was not to
be captured so easily ; he returned the gripe of
the veteran by a similar grasp on his throat,
and for a moment it was a question who should
strangle the other first. During the struggle
Derrick dragged the old soldier out of the
window and they fell to the ground, where
the battle raged furiously, until Ebenezer,
aroused by the noise, came to the assistance of
his son-in-law, accompanied by one of his work-
men ; and by the combined efforts of the three,
Derrick was overpowered. He was taken into
the house, confined in an upper room, and told
that as he seemed so anxious to see the inside
of the dwelling, he should have a chance.

56 Derrick Van Dam.

The Indian fighter had been too watchful.
He had observed the young man lurking about
the premises for a day or two, and had been
on the look-out for him. His boasts respecting
his intended wife had reached his ears, and he
had a welcome prepared for him whenever he
should cross his path.

Ebenezer was not a little alarmed at the
eflFect of this proceeding. He knew that Teu-
nis was not a man to permit his friend to be
seized with Impunity, and his heart sank at the
idea of the fury of the hard-headed Dutchman.
But his g^m confederate was as obdurate and
impervious to fear as Teunis himself, and he
insisted that Derrick should be kept in durance.
He even suggested the propriety of hanging
him on the spot. In his wars against the In-
dians he had acquired a habit of doing these
things which he found it difficult to break.
Nothing was settled, except that time should
be taken to deliberate. Seth Pinchon, with
that keen relish for strife which had become a
part of his nature, penned a note to Teunis in
characters as stiff and downright as his own
blows, informing him that Derrick Van Dam
had been detected in the act of breaking into

Derrick Van Dam. 57

m

the house of Ebenezer Cock, and had been se-
cured ; that as the crime was, by law, punish-
able with death, he presumed that he would
be hung.

Having penned this epistle without the
knowledge of Ebenezer, he dispatched it, and
passed the rest of the day in quite a compla-
cent state of mind at the idea of the uproar
which the receipt of it would excite at Matine-
cock. He was right in his surmise as to the
anger of the Dutchman ; but he had not calcu-
lated on his promptitude of action. No sooner
had he read the letter, than he turned to the
bearer of it and told him that he could not
leave the place.

" Here, Ryck, lock up this fellow in the
corn-crib, and set the dog to watch him.**

A sharp whistle called to his side a dog with
a square muzzle and eyes protruding from fat
and ill-nature. He walked stifHy up, eyeing the
prisoner and Ryck as if to ascertain the nature
of his duty.

"Do you think I can't get out of that?"
said the man, pointing to the place of confine-
ment with a contemptuous sneer.

Teunis cast a glance of stern satisfaction at

58 Derrick Van Dam.

the dog, gave vent to a grim chuckle, and told
him to " try it."

This was all that passed ; and Ryck, accom-
panied by the dog as an auxiliary, hurried the
prisoner to the corn-crib, bolting him in. The
dog quietly stretched himself on the ground in
front of it, and watched the prisoner through
the bars, without winking or removing his eyes
from him.

A hurried consultation was held with Ryck.
Then the veteran and his ancient body-guard
sallied out, and long before Seth Pinchon
dreamed that his missive had reached its desti-
nation, Teunis was on his errand of retaliation.
He was mounted on a tall, rawboned, hard-
trotting steed, as headstrong and fiery as him-
self, while Ryck followed him on a strong-built
cart-horse. They were both armed to the teeth.
They took their course through Lattingtown,
until they came to the remote region which is
now known as Buckram. Their warlike ap-
pearance created no little consternation ; for,
like the Ishmaelite of old, the Dutchman's hand
was against every man. It was evident from
their equipment that mischief was on foot;
and none knew where the blow would fall.

Derrick Van Dam. 59

They did not draw rein until they arrived at
the dwelling of Ebenezer Cock.

Seth Pinchon, not expecting so speedy a re-
ply to his letter, was absent ; but Ebenezer
had descried them in the distance, and had a
glimmering of the nature of the visit. He had
no objection to meeting the veteran on the
field of argument, but he had a mortal antipa-
thy to bodily encounter, and had withdrawn,
leaving the field to his adversary and his dwell-
iiig garrisoned by his wife, in whose powers he
had such confidence, that his face lighted up
with a sinister smile at the idea of the recep-
tion which would await the veteran when he
ventured to assail the stronghold of the Cocks.

The loud summons of Teunis was answered
by a shrill response, telling him to come in
and say what he wanted.

Teunis was a man of few words, and his
errand was a simple one. He produced the
missive which he had received from Seth
Pinchon, read it aloud, and said : "I am
come in quest of Derrick Van Dam. Where
is he?"

Mrs. Cock, like many of her sex, was better
at vituperation than at argument, and as she

6o Derrick Van Dam.

could not deny that she knew where tlie prisoner
was, she did not attempt it, but opened the
floodgates of her voice, and inundated her visi-
tor with a torrent of that kind of eloquence
which had been so effectual in quenching the
spirit of Ebenezer, and of bringing the whole
neighborhood under her domination.

For once she was at fault. Teunis eyed her
in silence ; he uttered not a word until she had
got through, and paused from sheer want of
breath. Then he told her plainly that what
she had said was no answer to his question,
which he now repeated.

" Where is Derrick Van Dam ? "

Again the floodgates were opened, and out
came another deluge ; but her breath was giv-
ing out and the torrent was less impetuous.
Another pause followed. Teunis was as cold
as ever, but a little more resolute ; his lips
were compressed and his fingers griped the
back of a chair. Again he asked the ques-
tion. This time Mrs. Cock, put off her guard
by the indifference of the soldier, fairly shook
her fist in his face and told him that she
knew where the gallows bird was ; that he was
in safe keeping, where all the Van Gelders in

Derrick Van Dam. 6i

creation could not reach him, and concluded
by a sincere wish that he were hung.

The glowing eyes of the Dutchman showed
that he was fairly roused ; and when she
paused, he told her that he must have either
Derrick or herself; that he had come to rescue
his friend, and that he was determined not to
return empty-handed.

The response to this threat was prompt and
warlike. She seized a broomstick, and dared
the veteran to lay a finger on her.

Teunis was too chivalrous to make the attack
himself, but turning to Ryck he gave orders for
the assault.

Ryck immediately charged her in person.
Resistance was vain. The broomstick was
shivered across Ryck's grisly poll, but it might
as well have encountered one of the boulders
of Matinecock ; and before Mrs. Cock had re-
covered her wits, she found herself mounted on
horseback in front of Ryck, scouring across the
country at headlong speed.

On a table lay the pen and ink, where Seth
Pinchon had left them. Teunis wrote a few
words, and left the paper on the table. Then
mounting he followed Ryck.

62 Derrick Van Dam.

No hen in the clutches of a hawk was ever
more vociferous than Mrs. Cock, and as she
was borne on, a stream of abuse and vitupera-
tion escaped her, which might have been heard
for a mile. Her captors paid no regard to it,
nor did they stop until she was landed at the
dwelling of the veteran, very much dishevelled
and bedraggled, and desperately out of temper
at the hustling which she had received in her
involuntary elopement.

Teunis found the prisoner whom he had left,
gazing ruefully from between the bars of the
corn-crib, and the dog assiduous in his atten-
tions. The Dutchman's first business was to
open the door and let the captive out, after
which he told him that he might go to those
who had sent him. This permission was ac-
companied by a kick in the rear to help him
on his way.

Great was the dismay throughout Buckram
and Lattingtown, when the news of the abduc-
tion of Mrs. Cock was bruited abroad. The
desperate character of Van Gelder was already
a matter of notoriety ; but that he would have
the hardihood to tackle Mrs. Cock, and carry
her off to the fastnesses of Matinecock, had

Derrick Van Dam. 63

never entered into the head of the most vision-
ary of them all.

Ebenezer was in a ferment. He sent for his
martial son-in-law, and they laid their heads
together to discover some mode of circumvent-
ing their resolute foe. Seth Pinchon was for
marching to the fortress, storming it, and put-
ting the whole garrison to the sword ; proceed-
ings of that kind had been every-day matters
with him in his forays into the Indian borders.
The country was becoming dreadfully peace-
ful, and he looked upon a sharp encounter as
an agreeable interlude in the monotony of his
present life.

Ebenezer, however, suggested that it would
not be the means of delivering Mrs. Cock.

" What will he do with her? " asked Seth.

" Hang her/* replied Ebenezer. " Here 's his
letter,'* said he, producing the scrawl which
Teunis had left on the table. " He swears that
he will and he '11 keep his word.**

Seth Pinchon looked about him cautiously,
and cast an inquiring eye on his intended
father-in-law.

" Suppose he did ? '*

Ebenezer returned the look. For a moment

64 Derrick Van Dam.

a wintry smile lighted up his face, then his
features relapsed into their usual stiff expres-
sion, and he shook his head. " It won't do.
We 'd be the talk of the whole country." But
several times his eyes glistened as he thought
of it ; for there was something agreeable in
the idea.

After much deliberation, but one course
seemed open ; this was to effect an exchange
of prisoners, and to trust to chance to get Der-
rick again into their hands.

It was acceptable to neither ; but was espe-
cially unpalatable to Seth, who stood out
staunchly against it. Before deciding they
determined to visit the fortress to see if it
could be taken by assault. If that could not
be done, it would be time enough to adopt the
other alternative.

To this proposition Ebenezer was fain to as-
sent. He told his daughter the nature of his
errand, and cautioned her to be especially
watchful over the prisoner. He committed
to her charge the key of the chamber where
Derrick was confined. He hinted that his
daring character had been greatly exaggerated ;
that the most chicken-hearted fellow he had

Derrick Van Dam. 65

ever met with, would not have submitted to
imprisonment as tamely as Derrick had done.
Having thus made all secure at home, he and
Seth set out to beat up the quarters of their
old foe.

When they came in sight of the fortress they
descried the head of Teunis Van Gelder and
the end of a blunderbuss protruding from a
window in the second story ; and the black face
and white eyes of Ryck, similariy supported,
in a dormer-window in the roof, while the
square-nosed dog patrolled in front of the
house with the gravity of a sentinel. From a
small window high up in the cockloft was to
be seen the disconsolate face of Mrs. Cock,
who, on the approach of her allies, waved
some article of female attire from the window
in token of her presence, and that she was ripe
for assistance.

There was something so formidable in the at-
titude of the beleaguered forces, that Ebenezer
Cock deemed it prudent, before venturing fur-
ther, to parley; and forthwith, tying a white
rag to the end of a stick, he dispatched Seth
Pinchon with it as a flag of truce.

Teunis Van Gelder maintained his attitude

66 Derrick Van Dam.

of defiant caution. He made no offer to
molest the ambassador until he arrived within
speaking distance, and then commanded him
to halt and disclose the nature of his errand.

" I come for Mrs. Mehitable Cock," said Seth
Pinchon.

" Then you Ve come on a fool's errand," was
the somewhat uncivil answer.

" If you don't give her up I *11 take the law
of you ! " shouted Ebenezer from the distant
spot where he had posted himself.

Teunis replied by striking a light, putting a
pipe between his teeth, and glaring out from
beneath the clouds of smoke.

In the meantime Seth Pinchon was recon-
noitring the premises. Things certainly looked
unpromising. The blunderbuss of the veteran
covered him wherever he turned, and the dog
followed him with his nose in unpleasant prox-
imity to the calves of his legs, ready to com-
mence hostilities on the slightest intimation
from the war department. He slowly made
the circuit of the house, the dog at his heels,
and from each window as he proceeded the
head of the veteran and the end of his blun-
derbuss appeared. Ryck, in the meantime,
kept watch on the motions of Ebenezer.

i^

Derrick Van Dam. 67

Having satisfied himself that nothing could
be done in the way of attack, Seth Pinchon
determined to make an effort at intimidation.

" Look ye, sirrah ! " said he, " we Ve come
for Mrs. Cock, and Mrs. Cock we will have ! **

Teunis made no other reply than the volume
of smoke which he puffed from his lips.

" By thunder ! '* exclaimed Seth, waxing
angry, " I *11 storm the house ! "

The Dutchman made no other reply than to
bring the muzzle of his blunderbuss to bear
upon the speaker.

Pinchon was evidently puzzled ; for from what
he knew of the iron character of the Dutchman,
he felt sure that any such attempt would draw
upon him a discharge of fire-arms from the be-
sieged. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Cock, from her
perch in the cockloft, was at one moment urg-
ing on the attack, at another bestowing torrents
of abuse on her captors, and on the discreet
pusillanimity of Ebenezer, who kept beyond
range of the artillery.

While the perplexity of the besiegers was at
its height, and Sefla%as on the point of sug-
gesting an exch^inge of prisoners by way of
compromise, att parties were startled by the

68 Derrick Van Dam.

clatter of hoofs. The next moment the mes-
senger who had delivered Seth's letter, dashed
up at full gallop and shouting at the top of his
lungs. He brought word that Derrick had es-
caped, and what was worse than all, had carried
off Freelove with him.

The uproar was prodigious ! Ebenezer for-
got his fear of gunpowder, and rushed to
communicate the news to Seth, and the two
consulted in eager tones with the lady in the
cockloft, while a loud bellow of satisfaction
burst from the lips of Teunis in the second story,
echoed in stentorian tones by Ryck from the
dormer-window.

Seth was for starting off at once in pursuit,
and would not listen to any thing which spoke
of delay.

" But think of Mrs. Cock," put in Ebenezer.
"What about her?"

" Let him hang her ! *' was the rough answer.

Mrs. Cock caught the words, and her rejoin^
der was shrill and sharp; but Seth heeded it
not. He was already on his way to Buckram.
Deserted by his ally, Ebenezer was fain to
make good his retreat. But Teunis hailed him :

" When Derrick is safe, I '11 send back that

Derrick Van Dam. 69

^^gage in the cockloft. But if any harm hap-
pens to him, she shall swing, if there 's a tree in
lilatinecock which will bear her weight. Be
off now, or I *11 set the dog on you."

Ebenezer waited no second bidding, and dis-
appeared, followed by his servant, leaving Mrs.
Cock once more to the tender mercies of her
captors, and brimful of wrath against her in-
tended son-in-law.

Seth Pinchon and his intended father-in-law
instituted a vigorous search for the fugitives ;
but they could learn nothing of them. Seth
was furious with disappointment, and Eben-
ezer was inconsolable for the loss of his child.

At the end of a week, Teunis Van Gelder re-
ceived a dispatch from Derrick. It was written
from one of the towns on the Hudson River,
and informed him of his marriage with the fair
Freelove.

On the receipt of this, Mrs. Cock was dis-
charged from custody, and once more returned
to her domicile, from which she forthwith ex-
pelled Seth Pinchon. The warrior attempted
to resist, but it was idle. He found that the
tongue of Mrs. Cock was keener than any weap-
on that he had ever encountered ; and after

70 Derrick Van Dam.

several sharp skirmishes, in which he was sig-
nally defeated, he deserted the field.

As time rolled on Ebenezer's anger began to
abate, and at last he sent an invitation to his
son-in-law to bring his wife to Buckram. His
wrath had been subsiding for some time, and
became completely extinguished when news
reached him that Derrick had unexpectedly in-
herited the property of Rip Van Dam, the great
land-holder of Manhattan.

Derrick accepted the invitation ; but there
was little congeniality between him and his
father-in-law, and the most of his time was
passed with Teunis Van Gelder. After the re-
turn of the two to the city, the feud between
Teunis and Ebenezer was revived, and was kept
up until Teunis slept with his fathers.

RALPH CRAFT.

AnAuthentic History front t fie Van Gelder papers.

MANY years ago the village of Mosquito
Cove was the home of one Ralph
Craft ; from whom are descended all the Crafts
of the neighborhood.

Every place has its good-natured vagabond,
who is hand in glove with everybody, and who
hates work from the bottom of his heart.

This peculiarity had been in the Craft family
for several generations, and as it descended
from father to son it increased in degree, until
it reached Ralph with tenfold intensity.

He looked upon regular work as an abomina-
tion, and but for the influence of a wife, who
kept him in awe by the constant use of her
tongue, and by the occasional application of
other instruments of torture, would have passed
through the world with much satisfaction to
himself, though of little use to any one else.

71

72 Ralph Craft.

As it was, he looked upon his home as a very
pleasant place to roost in at night, but in the
daytime he gave it as wide a berth as possible.

He could not keep away from it always — but
the moment he crossed its threshold his soul
sank within him, his voice dwindled to some-
thing between a whine and a whisper ; his step
became quiet and stealthy like that of a cat,
and he always listened to the lectures of his wife
as a dutiful and hen-pecked husband should —
in silence ; and was never known to utter a
word against her, until she was out of hearing.

Every thing under her sway partook of the
same general influence. Even the dunghill
cock, who swelled and ruffled and crowed among
the poultry while in the barn-yard, seemed to
feel a weight upon his spirits when under her
eye. His strut was quickened to a sidelong
run, his tail was ducked down as if to dodge
a blow, and his vociferous crow was frequently
cut short in the middle.

It is but justice to Mrs. Craft to remark, that
if good advice could have made a new man of
her husband, she would have succeeded ; for he
never entered the house without being informed
of his worthlessness, and that he was a disgrace

Ralph Craft. *J2^

to his wife and her connections. To all this he
had but one reply : " That he was, as he was
bom and that what was bred in the bone never
came out at the flesh."

Like many persons of his description he was
something of a sportsman, and whiled away
much of his time, with gun and dog, in the
neighboring woods hunting for game.

It happened one day, that he had been drink-
ing a little too hard with a vagabond crony at
the village tavern, and on returning home,
urged on by the unwonted stimulus, he mus-
tered courage enough to risk a wordy warfare
with his helpmate.

The result was speedy and to the point ; he
was thrust neck and heels from the house, and
obliged to sue for terms.

Fortunately for him, the domestic larder was
empty, and his wife made it a condition of the
treaty of peace, that he should forthwith sally out
and replenish the family stores with game. It
was also hinted that if he returned empty-handed
he would find the doors closed against him.
But with an honesty which deserves all praise,
she forbade his robbing any of the neighboring
hen-roosts while on his errand.

74 Ralph Craft.

Ralph, glad to make his peace on any terms
that were not to be enforced by a broomstick,
set about his task with alacrity.

He replenished his powder-horn, fitted a new
flint to his gun, and whistling his dog " Grim " to
his side, directed his steps towards Dosoris Lane.

It was still early in the day, and being a tol-
erable shot, he had no fears for the result, and
was right happy at being obliged to undergo a
penance so much in consonance with his own
inclinations.

On entering the lane, he whistled Grim into
the bushes, while he sauntered carelessly along,
keeping a watchful eye on the brushwood, and
occasionally glancing upward in hopes of catch-
ing sight of a pigeon in the tree-tops.

His search was fruitless ; he reached the end
of the lane without having started any thing ex-
cept a black Snake, which glided swiftly across
his path and disappeared in the opposite brush-
wood.

" Comfortable this! *' muttered he as he once
more whistled for Grim, and, leaning on the
end of his gun, ran his eye over the landscape.

At the foot of the hill on which he stood lay
a small lake ; and at the opposite side rose the

Ralph Craft. 75

wood-clad peninsula now known as the West
Island.

It was a beautiful and cloudless afternoon ;
the lake lay in glassy smoothness, reflecting in
its tranquil bosom the pines that darkened the
Island. Not a ripple broke its calmness, except
when, now and then, a fish, in pursuit of an in-
sect, darted forth like a spark of silver, and
fell glittering back into the pure element.

Nature, too, was in her rainbow garb, and
wore a thousand tints which spoke the waning
year, and which decked the forests with beauty
for a season, only to mark more strongly their
coming desolation.

Ralph's mind, however, was engrossed with
other objects than the scenery. He ran his eye
along the margin of the lake. Nothing was to
be seen except a solitary kingfisher, perched
upon a rail overhanging the water, and who,
to judge from his moody air, had been sent out
on the same errand as himself.

After a long and unsatisfactory survey,
Ralph descended the hill, and as it was growing
late, redoubled his speed and exertions. In
vain, however, he scoured the borders of the
pond and beat through all the swamps and

I

76 Ralph Craft.

thickets of the neighborhood. Fate seemed
against him, and just as the last rays of the set-
ting sun disappeared from the sleeping waters of
the Sound, he stood upon its beach as empty-
handed as ever. Flocks of crows, high up in the
air, were winging their flight towards a distant
forest. Cattle were slowly wending their way
to the farm-yards of their respective owners.
The pale disc of the moon was just peeping
above the eastern horizon, and several bats
were beginning to flit about in the twilight.

Ralph seated himself disconsolately, support-
ing the sides of his head between his hands,
with his eyes wistfully fixed upon the heaving
Sound, as its gentle billows rippled over the
pebbles at his feet.

Grim, too, seemed to sympathize with him ;
for whenever Ralph received a rough welcome
at home. Grim was sure to partake of the same
fare. He seemed aware of the nature of the
errand on which they had been sent ; he had
done his utmost, and now stretched himself
panting at the feet of his master.

At a short distance from the spot was a nar-
row strip of swamp, generally known as Flag
Brook ; and the idea suddenly occurred to Ralph

Ralph Craft. 77

that as it was not yet dark, he might meet with
something in that quarter.

With a great deal of alacrity, and something
like hope, he set out, but had not gone far be-
fore the twilight deepened ; and the thick shad-
ow of the woods, which bounded one side of the
swamp, made the obscurity equal to that of the
night. There was no longer any hope; and
forcing his way out of the bushes, and throwing
his gun upon the ground, Ralph cast himself
beside it and began to ruminate upon matters
and things at home.

In the meantime the moon rose slowly in the
heavens, throwing the shadow of the gigantic
trees under which he lay, far out in a narrow
field between him and the swamp.

" I wish the deuce had that wife of mine ? "
ejaculated he, as he turned on his elbow and
thrust a hand in his breeches-pocket. "An
empty stomach and hard names ? Better sleep
out all night ! "

As he muttered this, he struck into a thought-
ful whistle.

Suddenly Grim sprang up, and elevating his
nose, commenced snuffing the air. Ralph
grasped his gun and started to his feet.

78 Rcdph Craft.

" What IS it ? So ho ! boy. So ho ! boy.
Curse the dog ! I see nothing. So ho !'*

Grim, however, did not advance, and when
his master urged him on, he wagged his tail in
acknowledgment of his instructions, and look-
ing up in his face uttered a long, low whine.
There was something in this that struck Ralph
as mysterious, for the dog was generally as
keen in the sport as himself. He leaned
forward, straining his eyes, and as he did so
caught sight of a rabbit squatting under a bush.

" Aha ! My little fellow, you are mine ! " ex-
claimed he, joyfully. " I *11 pass a peaceable night
under my own roof yet ! '*

As he spoke he raised his gun to his cheek,
but as he pulled the trigger the barrel was
struck up, and the shot went pattering through
the trees bringing down a shower of leaves.

" Let that rabbit alone ! '* exclaimed a rough
voice at his elbow. '* What business have you
poaching on my preserves ? **

Ralph turned round hot with anger ; for with
the exception of his wife, he feared neither devil
nor man. Upon the upper rail of a fence,
within a few feet of him, sat a little squat figure
in Dutch small-clothes, of ample dimensions in

Ralph Craft 79

the skirts, and gathered tightly at the knees,
which were garnished with silver buckles.

Ralph had been unaware of his presence;
but there he sat, with his legs crossed, a
gold-headed cane in his hand, and smoking a
Dutch pipe as composedly as if he had been
there an hour.

" Let that rabbit alone, I say ! " repeated he
with more emphasis.

Ralph was not a little startled at the out-
landish rig of the little man ; nor did he feel
more easy when he encountered the fierce,
positive eye which met his; but rallying his
wits and assuming a look of bravado he tucked
his arms akimbo and demanded of the other
who he was and why he had interfered with
his sport.

For some time the person thus addressed
kept on puffing out clouds of smoke, which,
for volume and density, completely amazed
Ralph. At length, gravely blowing in his face
a puff of smoke that nearly strangled him he an-
swered in a more pacific tone : " I am a gentle-
man generally more talked of than known, Mr.
Craft, and one who knows you better than you
are aware of, and who, at a pinch, may aid

8o Ralph Craft.

you. But tell me,*' added he in a more in-
sinuating tone, "what strange freak has sent
you hither sporting by moonlight ? "

Ralph hesitated a moment ; but he was a
man of few secrets, and his aflfairs were the
town-talk. The temper of his wife was as
much the dread of the village as of himself,
and it mattered little whether one person more
or less was initiated in the secret of his
troubles. So, without much parley, he frankly
disclosed the nature of the errand on which he
had been sent, and the necessity for his success.

" Mr. Craft," said the little man, extending
one hand gravely towards him, whilst he pressed
the other upon his heart, "I respect you — I
sympathize with you — I will assist you."

Ralph eyed him dubiously. At length he
said : " You are a small man, though corpu-
lent."

" But I 'm vigorous ! " exclaimed the stranger,
stretching out one leg and working his arms
and shoulders, as if in the act of rowing, for
the purpose of displaying his muscle, "vig-
orous, sir ; very vigorous. I can do any thing
to serve you, and I will ! Name your request."

Ralph's eyes sparkled. He looked cautiously

Ralph Craft. 8i

about him, made two or three steps forward,
and looked down the swamp, glanced behind
the trees and up among the branches; then
coming back he approached his mouth within
two inches of the ear of the other and asked,
ivith some hesitation, " Would you dare to
tackle Mrs. Craft ? "

"Mrs. Craft! Your wife?" exclaimed the
other.

" The same," replied Ralph in a disappointed
tone. " She is a tough one. I believe she 'd
thrash Old Nick himself."

" She *d find that difficult ! " exclaimed the
stranger, drawing a hard breath between his
teeth, and tightening his coat about him.

" Not so difficult as you imagine," answered
Ralph.

" Sir ! " exclaimed the little man, springing
from the fence, with his pipe in one hand and
his cane in the other, and bridling up to Ralph
— " Sir ! you are not acquainted with the gen-
tleman of whom you speak ! "

" No," replied Ralph laconically, " but I am
with Mrs. Craft."

The stranger's choler seemed rising ; he thrust
his pipe in his buttonhole, and paced rapidly

82 Ralph Craft.

backward and forward. At length, stoppinj
short, he thrust his cane emphatically in the*^
ground and exclaimed : " I *11 do it ! "

" Mr. Craft,** said he, " I have some business
to attend to at this time, but will return in
half an hour. If you will wait for me, I may
do you a good turn that few others would.**

Ralph knew that there was but little chance
of his sleeping beneath his own roof, and being
in no very particular hurry, promised.

His new acquaintance then turned abruptly
from him, and walking across the field with a
speed which, for one of his appearance, struck
Ralph as marvellous, disappeared among the
underwood that clustered about the head of
Flag Brook, shrouding a huge bed of mud and
slime.

" In the mire,** thought Ralph ; " his short
legs won*t help him much ; but that *s no affair
of mine.**

Ralph*s first impulse, after his departure, was
to reload his gun and look for his dog ; but Grim
was nowhere to be seen.

Supposing that he had gone off in pursuit
of the rabbit, which had also disappeared,
he gave himself no further thought about

Ralph CrafL 83

him, but leaning against the fence, thrust his
hands in his pockets, and amused himself,
sometimes by wondering who the stranger
could be, sometimes by whistling, or by watch-
ing the moon as it sailed through the deep blue
arch over his head.

In half an hour, punctual to his word, the
stranger was seen coming across the field.

He did not move with the alacrity with
which he had set out; and upon his near
approach, Ralph observed that his coat was
nearly torn from his shoulders, his cocked hat
was battered and bent in, and there were sun-
dry rents in the nether extremity of his small
clothes.

When he came up, he panted violently, as if
exhausted by great exertion ; and as he turned
his face in the moonlight, it appeared striped
and seamed with scratches like the bark of a
young plum-tree. In his hand he held several
partridges, which he flung towards Ralph.

" I have reflected upon your situation, Mr.
Craft," said he, respectfully, " and find you are
more to be pitied than blamed. Take these
birds and make your peace with your wife —
from my soul, I pity you."

84 Ralph Craft.

"You seem to need that yourself/' replied
Ralph, compassionately ; " How came your
clothes so tattered, and your face so terribly
scratched ? "

" In the bushes/* answered the other, crab-
bedly. ** Here are your birds, take them, and
ask me no further questions, for I am not in the
humor to answer them. Go home to your wife.
Good-night.** As he spoke he turned on his
heel, and ascending the hill, was lost in the
thicket which shrouded Dosoris Lane. Ralph
watched him until he was out of sight, then
taking up his gift he whistled to Grim, but no
dog came.

Knowing, however, that the animal would be
sure to find his way to the village, he set out
with a light step. Within a short distance of
his dwelling he fell in with the cur, who seemed
almost beside himself with joy at their meeting.
Upon entering his kitchen Ralph was thunder-
struck. In the centre stood Mrs. Craft, with a
face like a ripened tomato, and a broken broom-
stick in her hand. Tables, chairs, stools, plates
and dishes strewed the floor. Windows were
broken, every thing bore indication of the ut-
most confusion, and nearly all the furniture was

Ralph Craft 85

in a state of dilapidation. Her story was soon
told to her husband, and to a group of listening
neighbors, who had assembled at the noise of
the fracas.

About an hour before, a corpulent little
gentleman, in a cocked hat and loose breeches,
with a cane in his hand and a pipe in his but-
tonhole, had walked into the kitchen.

Seating himself in front of the fire, appar-
ently as much at ease as if the house belonged
to him, he lighted his pipe and with a few whiffs
filled the room with smoke. Mrs. Craft was
not the woman to put up with this, and accord-
ingly the intruder was requested to desist. He
replied that if the smoke was unpleasant to Mrs.
Craft, she was at liberty to quit the house, as
he should not cease until his pipe was ou^.

One word brought on another, until at length
the matter came to blows, and a battle of that
kind, which, by way of distinction, is called
" royal," ensued. It was carried on with great
vigor on both sides, but ended in the expulsion
of the intruder, although nearly all the house-
hold furniture was demolished in the struggle,
Mrs. Craft was in a violent taking, and was reso-
lutely bent on having the law of the fellow, but

86 Ralph CrafL

unfortunately for the success of her intention,
he was never heard of from that day to this.

From the conversation which had taken place
between himself and the little man, Ralph was
enabled to give a pretty shrewd guess as to
whom he might be. But he kept the secret to
himself, for he feared that his character might
suffer were it generally known that he had in-
dulged in a sociable chat with a person so no-
toriously corrupt in his morals. And, moreover,
he entertained a lurking feeling of gratitude
towards one who had thus valorously enlisted
in his behalf, and cared not to see him held up
to the ridicule of the world.

He kept the secret until his wife was on her
death-bed, when, by way of comforting her in
her last moments, he informed her of the
whole of that night's adventure, assuring her
that she had gained a victory over no less
a person than " Old Nick ** himself, and that as
she had proved to be more than a match for
him when he intruded into her kitchen, there
was little doubt but that he would be careful to
keep out of her way for the future.

ZADOC TOWN,

From the papers of Mr. Wolfert Van Gelder.

DOSORIS LANE was a retired road,
about a mile in length, in some parts
running through open woodland, and in others
so completely embowered in trees that twilight
reigned there even at mid-day. There was a
dreamy stillness about the place, which was apt
to conjure up odd fancies in the mind of the loi-
terer, and he might have fancied himself in an
old abbey, as he looked among the columned
tree trunks, and the green arches overhead, un-
til startled from his revery by the shrill cry of
the blue-jaw, or the workmanlike tap of the wood-
pecker, as he scrambled around a tree trunk.
Here and there a ray of sunlight, struggling
through the overhanging branches, or the mat-
ted grape-vines which clambered over them,
would stream across the road, or lie in golden
flecks upon the dead leaves which strewed the
ground.

87

88 Zadoc Town.

Such at that time was Dosoris Lane, and
even at the present day it retains much of its
primitive character. The tide of travel, which
has found its way to these regions, filling them
with the hum of life, seems in a great measure
to have spared this road. In earlier times, how-
ever, quiet and dreamlike as it seemed in the
daytime, no spot was more astir than this after
nightfall. Elves and spirits, and goblins of all
denominations made it their haunt, and tales of
unearthly doings which were taking place there,
were rife throughout the country. At one
time the ghost of a hard-drinking miller was
seen galloping up and down the lane, astride
of a huge demijohn which he was spurring, like
a fiery charger, — no doubt a retaliation for the
spur which it had so often applied to him in
Jiis lifetime — always disappearing at a g^eat
tree, at the foot of which he had drank himself
to death, and which, in commemoration of that
event, is called the drinking tree to this day.

At another time, the ghost of one Billy
Cowles — who had died long before of asthma
— ^was seen patrolling the place. Billy was
buried in a graveyard near by; and it was
generally rumored that he was in search of

Zadoc Town. 89

breath, as he wheezed as he hurried along, and
was always seen with his coat open, his shirt
collar thrown back, and an old cravat in his
hand.

These, and a number of other characters of
the same kidney, made this vicinity their ren-
dezvous, and many a strange prank and gambol
was carried on there, until the place gained an
evil name ; wayfarers began to take a wide cir-
cuit to avoid its ill-omened neighborhood ; the
grass began to grow in its wagon track, and bold,
indeed, was he who would venture to brave its
perils after nightfall.

Just about this time, the place fell under the
domination of one Parson Woolsey, a stern old
clergyman and a large landholder, who looked
narrowly after his own interests, and kept the
whole country round in wholesome subjection.
Neither ghost nor man was permitted to cross
his path; loud prayer exorcised the former,

and a strong arm a long purse, and a rigk} de-

»

termination to enforce his own rights, kept the
latter in his place.

The resolute old clergyman carried matters
with a high hand until he died. He was buried
under the shade of his own forests, where his

\

90 Zadoc Town.

gravestone still stands half eaten away by time
and overrun by weeds and briars, with a figfure
of the sturdy parson in full canonicals carved on
the top, scowling from the midst of a bag wig,
and apparently keeping a grim watch over the
precincts.

After his death his lands passed into the
hands of a more degenerate race, and once
more the powers of the air were rampant.

Not a great while after this, a person of no
small repute, named Zadoc Town, dwelt in
this neighborhood. He had come there a
few years before from parts unknown. He was
a thin, keen man, with sharp features and a
pair of restless black eyes, placed so close to
his nose that they seemed intended to look
straight forward and in no other direction.
Musquito Cove had been a quiet place enough
before his arrival, dozing away under the
weight of its own antiquity, believing in noth-
ing, and looking upon all its greatness as de-
parted from the earth when Parson Woolsey
was buried, and somewhat disposed to think,
as all shrewd towns are apt to do, that what
Musquito Cove did not know was not worth
knowing, and what Musquito Cove did not pos-

Zadoc Town. 91

sess was not worth possessing — unless it might
be the money of other people. But when
Zadoc came he stirred them up ; he removed
the veil from their eyes, and soon had the
town in a turmoil. He took up his abode on
a narrow by-road at a short distance from the
village, in a precise-looking house with green
shutters, in which two holes were cut like eyes,
giving the house as keen and wide-awake a look
as its owner.

Here he dwelt under the shadow of two pop-
lar trees, and of a sister as keen and straight-
forward in aspect as himself, and for whose
energetic spirit and sharp tongue, it was said,
he had a very wary deference.

Be that as. it may, any restraint that he suf-
fered at home only rendered him more restless
abroad. He was here and there, up to his eyes
in every man's matters ; he called public
meetings ; he demonstrated to them the size
of the world outside of the village; he de-
nounced Quakerdom, then the prevailing epi-
demic of the place ; he talked of establishing
schools, newspapers, periodicals, and banks ; he
failed in all ! but succeeded in forming a fire
insurance company, of which he was the presi-

92 Zadoc Town.

dent, and had all the honor, while a tight-fisted
old farmer was made treasurer, and kept the
funds in a stone pot buried in his cellar, whence
he dug them up and counted them every night
after saying his prayers and just before going
to bed.

It happened shortly after Zadoc had been in-
stalled in his new office, that he had been pass-
ing an afternoon with an old friend named
Tommy Croft, who lived at Buckram. Tommy
was a sturdy, weather-beaten veteran, resem-
bling in strength and toughness one of the oaks
of his own woods. In his youth he had been a
double-jointed, hard-fisted fellow, who could
cudgel it with any man of his inches. He was
noted for believing in no law but what he car-
ried in his own arm, and for doubting every
one's opinion but his own ; and although a
Quaker, and of course a hater of broils, it was
whispered that he and his cudgel were some-
times at variance, and that his cudgel did not
always carry out the precepts that he advo-
cated. Be that as it may, he was a favorite
with all ; for he was frank, open-hearted, and
never stubborn, except when he could not have
his own way, and as Zadoc, though restless and

Zadoc Town, 93

persevering, was pliant, there was no collision
between them — they were fast friends.

Zadoc had been passing the afternoon with
his friend, and being tempted by Tommy's
strong cider to linger longer than was his wont,
the two sat gossiping at the door of the house,
until the setting sun warned Zadoc that it was
time to turn his face homeward. So taking his
leave, he set out, and Tommy, with his cudgel
under his arm, accompanied him several miles
on his way. But at last the darkness, which
increased as they went, rendering the road ob-
scure, indicated to him that it was time to
return, and bidding Zadoc " God-speed " he
left him just as he was approaching the perilous
regions of Dosoris.

Zadoc was pot-valiant just then, for at least
a quart of Tommy's cider was buttoned under
his jacket, distending his stomach and humming
through his head, until he felt himself a match
for the largest ghost that ever made Dosoris its
haunt.

The principal scourge of this lane, of late
years, had been the apparition of one Derrick
Wilkinson, a hard-riding horse-jockey, who had
broken his neck about twenty years before, and

94 Zadoc Town,

was said to patrol the lane from one end to the
other, and even to ^"aylay wayfarers, and at
times to cudgel them soundly, and at others to
lead them into all sorts of wild adventures.

Among others, there was a tale current that
he had beset a hard-headed old negro, named
Knot, as he was reeling homeward from a husking
frolic, somewhat the worse for his potations, and
had led him a helter-skelter chase, all night long,
through bush and brier ; at one time dragging
him through the swamp, at the head of Flag
Brook, and at another, ducking him in the Doso-
ris mill-pond, paying no regard to his entreaties
for rest, but as he became weary, plying him
with a fiery liquor of such potency as to keep
up his strength and courage, and make him as
reckless as the goblin himself; and that the
negro had been banged about in this rakehelly
manner, until the distant crow of a cock gave
warning of the approach of day. The ghost
then dashed at a tremendous rate into the fast-
nesses of Boggy Swamp, and with a loud yell,
disappeared, not forgetting to bestow a hearty
thwack on the head of Knot, which left him
senseless.

The story was laughed at by the young and

Zadoc Town. 95

incredulous; but the older inhabitants, who
had grown gray and wise with their years,
placed implicit faith in the tale. They had
lived long in the world, and had amassed a
great fund of experience ; and the most of
them recollected that when they were boys,
ghosts and hobgoblins were plenty. Moreover,
it was certain that Knot was found on the
morning after the adventures, lying at the foot
of a large tree in Boggy Swamp, very drunk —
no doubt from the effects of the miraculous
liquor, and very much stupefied — doubtless
from the effects of the blow.

From this time, Knot became a standard
authority on all subjects relating to the unseen
world. From that date, too, Docoris became
more of a wizard lane than ever.

Zadoc Town had been one of Knot's most
virulent opponents, and had once or twice, in
broad daylight, and under the wing of his sis-
ter, openly avowed his utter disbelief of the
whole story, and had even said that he would
like to catch Derrick stopping him, " that was
all."

Returning Tommy's salutation in a tone as
valiant as his own, he strode boldly into the

g6 Zadoc Town.

lane. It was not long, however, before the
fumes of the cider began to evaporate, and as
they disappeared, certain vague apprehensions
took the place of the false courage which had
so far supported him. All the tales which he
had heard came crowding into his mind. He
remembered, too, his own vaporings about
ghosts and hobgoblins, and particularly about
Derrick, and was not a little cowed at the recol-
lection of the rash courage which he had showed
in daylight. He kept a stealthy watch on the
dim hedges at the roadside, and several times
fancied that he saw a dusky figure flitting before
him, but it always proved to be a bush or a
rock. There was no sound to break the echo
of his own footfall, except the creaking noise
of the thousand insects which darkness had
awakened into life. He cleared his throat
loudly, and looked up towards the sky, but the
interlaced branches shut out the stars, and over-
head it looked as black as midnight. The sides
of the road, too, were completely shut in by
trees over-run by scrambling vines. He began
to doubt whether it would not be better to
retrace his steps, and spend the night under
the hospitable roof of Tommy Croft; but he

Zadoc Town. 97

recollected the shrill-tongued sister at home,
who had set her face against vagabondizing
and rantipoling of all kinds, under both of
which heads she particularly classed all indul-
gencies which conduced to irregularity or late-
ness of hours. Zadoc thought of this. If
he braved the dark lane, he might escape its
perils ; if he did not, a warm reception at home
was certain. " Egad," thought he, " if I had
but Betsey Town here to back me, I *d like to
see Derrick tackle her ! He *d catch a Tartar ! **

Had he been elsewhere, he would have
chuckled at the idea of such an encounter ; but
It was no time nor place for laughing, for he
was at the very spot where the ghost was said
to make its appearance, and he was debating in
his mind as to the propriety of taking to his
heels, when he was arrested by a voice at the
• roadside calling out : " Mr. Town, I 'm waiting
for you."

Zadoc's knees shook under him, but before
he could rouse himself, he was jerked off his
feet, and whisked over the fence by a power
which he could not resist.

" Follow ! " said the voice. Zadoc saw in
front of him the dim outline of a figure gliding

98 21adoc Town.

swiftly through bush and brier, stopping at no
impediment, and also felt himself impelled to
follow. As they glided along through an
opening in the wood he obtained a better view
of his guide, and, to his horror, recognized the
small jockey-cap, the lank, straight hair, and
gray, glittering eyes of Derrick Wilkinson.

The cold perspiration stood on his forehead ;
and his terror was not a little increased by
hearing a heavy footstep following. He cast
a stealthy glance over his shoulder and caught a
glimpse of a figure as far behind as the other
was before him. All hope of retreat was cut
off, and, muttering a kind of rambling prayer,
Zadoc followed the spectre until they came to
a large tree at the head of Flag Brook. Here
the ghost stopped, and, turning short around,
glided up to Zadoc, and said, in a very respect-
ful tone :

" Mr. Town, in starlight and storm, many a
weary night I Ve waited for you. I *m Derrick
Wilkinson ! Be seated, sir."

This confirmation of his previous knowledge
was by no means consolatory. Derrick had
always been a harem-scarem dare-devil during
his lifetime, and Zadoc had strong misgivings

Zadoc Town. 99

that death might not have improved his char-
acter. He recollected, too, Knot's adventure,
and his heart died within him. He, however,
slid to the ground, as directed, and at the same
time attempted to express some satisfaction at
the desire evinced for his company, but the
words stuck in his throat, and he could only
move his Ifps without speaking.

" I *m told you Ve got up in the world since I
left it," said Derrick, by way of opening the
conversation and of putting his companion at
his ease.

Zadoc was wary, and as he did not under-
stand the purport of the remark, he made a
very non-committal answer.

" You Ve been a very busy man in the vil-
lage," said the apparition ; " you Ve made great
changes."

" I Ve tried to do my duty," replied Zadoc,
deprecatingly, at the same time endeavoring
to change his position in such a way as to
catch sight of the other figure, which had fol-
lowed at his heels, and which he now observed
under a tree close by, apparently ready to back
his fellow goblin in any unearthly project
which he might have on foot.

lOO Zadoc Town.

" You have^ Mr. Town, and I honor you for
it," replied Goblin, with strong emphasis. " I
take a strong interest in the * Cove * even yet.
There were the Cowles and the Crofts and the
Dyers and the Blarcoms and the Smiths and
the H owlets, and dozens of others. They
were rare boys in my day."

" They are all dead and gone," said Zadoc,
as, beginning to feel less nervous, he grew
more loquacious.

** I see most of them every day," replied
Goblin. One or two of them have gone
elsewhere ; but I meet nearly all of them
constantly. In fact, they sent me to see
you."

Zadoc's hair began to bristle, for he had not
imagined that this visitation was a concerted
project of all the defunct worthies of the county.
He made no reply, but sat with every sense on
the alert, for he observed the attendant goblin
drawing still nearer ; and was apprehensive lest
he might represent another of the departed
worthies.

" Rumors of the great good that you have done
have reached even us," continued the ghost in
a tone which was intended to be insmuating,

Zadoc Town. loi

but which, owing to the flimsy texture of its
owner, was rather asthmatic.

Zadoc remained taciturn.

"We Ve heard among other things, that
you Ve formed a company to insure against
fire. Fire is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Town."

" Very," replied Zadoc.

" Fires are very prevalent where we are,"
said the ghost ; " in fact, they are the greatest
drawbacks to the place. We all suffer from
them."

Zadoc moved uneasily in his seat.

" I think you insure against fire, Mr. Town ;
don't you ? "

For a brief moment he felt that he was pres-
ident of the insurance company, and here was
a chance of turning an honest penny. He re-
plied in the affirmative with some alacrity, and
began to recapitulate the terms.

" Do you think, Mr. Town," said Goblin,
assuming a winning tone, and endeavoring to
coax up a smile on his sinister features, " that
you could insure us?"

"You?"

"Yes, me," replied the Goblin, "and your
other friends."

I02 Zadoc Town.

" Against what ? ** inquired Zadoc.

" Fire. It *s very warm where we live,** re-
plied he ; and I *ve leave of absence till cock-
crow. We thought that if we could get insured
during the night, we would snap our fingers
when I go back. We don't mind money,
and it would be a praiseworthy act on your
part to outwit ' Old Scratch ! * It tells greatly
in a man's favor to annoy the old gentleman,
and that would^ I can assure you. I know him
well.**

Here was a dilemma ; and Zadoc felt that his
present position required adroit management.

" You don*t mean to say,** said he, evasively,
'*that all those respectable people, — very
respectable people — have gone to the dev — **

"5^>/** said the Goblin, " don *t be uncivil.
Sir! Wherever they are, I mean to say that
the climate does n*t agree with them — ^being
rather too tropical. I mean, too, that they
want to be insured against fire. Do I make
myself understood ? **

There was something too positive in his man-
ner to permit of further equivocation. Zadoc
muttered something about his being unable to
insure out of the county without consulting

Zadoc Town. 103

the stockholders, and that he feared the risk
was " extra-hazardous."

The goblin's eyes fairly glowed with fury as
he said : " Refuse, if you dare ! You are mine
till cock-crow. Will you insure ? "

Zadoc closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.
The idea of getting the ill-will of the "Old
Boy " by interfering between him and his
property was not to be thought of for an
instant, and he shook his head.

" Ha ! *' exclaimed the goblin, gnashing his
teeth, " then here 's at you."

"And here *s at tJiee I ** exclaimed a voice be-
hind him. " Ghost or devil, take t/tat/ " At
the same time a heavy cudgel was flourished in
the air ; it descended on what appeared to be
the very head of the goblin, and cleaving
through head and body hit hard against the
ground. There was a bright flash, a puff of
sulphurous smoke, and Zadoc found himself
alone in the presence of his deliverer, Tommy
Croft.

" Thee was hard beset, Zadoc," said Tommy,
"and thee was wrong in saying goblins were
agin natur' ; but thee withstood that fellow as
thee should. I 'm very sorry, however, to hear

I04 Zadac Town.

that so many of our respected friends have got
into such unpleasant quarters. Thee won't
laugh at Old Knot again. It *s very sartain I
never saw so unsolid a thing as that goblin.
The stick went clean through him, as if he was
smoke. Pah ! he smells like burnt gunpowder.
Come Zadoc, let *s be moving."

Taking Zadoc under one arm and his trusty
cudgel under the other, Tommy tramped
through the woods and across the fields ; nor
did he relinquish the guardianship of his friend
until he had seen him fairly housed beneath
his own roof and under the vinegar eye of
Sister Betsy, where he felt certain that neither
goblin nor "Old Nick" himself would be
hardy enough to disturb him.

RULIF VAN PELT.

ON one of those high ridges of land which
overlook the Hudson, between Spuyten
Duyvil Creek and Tarrytown, stood, long be-
fore the Revolution, a stone house, perched
like an eagle's nest upon the very crest of the
hill, and commanding a wide view of the river.
Two or three gigantic elms flung their heavy
branches over the roof, and sheltered it from
the rays of the sun, and in front of the house,
a lawn here and there, dotted with luxuriant
trees, stretched off towards the river. On one
side of it, a small brook stole through the grass
until it reached a piece of broken woodland,
when it took a sudden shoot downward, scam-
pering and brawling through bush and brier,
and over rock and tree trunk, until it made
its way to the shore and buried itself in the
river.

But rich and verdant as were the grounds,

105

io6 Ridif Van Pelt.

the house itself was decayed and ruinous, shat-
tered by time and storm, and bearing marks of
neglect as well as of age. The fences were out
of repair, and the garden overrun with weeds.
Nor were the out-houses in better condition ;
for the large stone barn which stood at a short
distance, surrounded by sheds and granaries,
and which in former days had teemed with
the produce of the farm, showed that time and
neglect had done their work with it. Corn-
cribs and hay-lofts were empty; doors and
windows were unhung, or flapped to and
fro in the wind, screeching like evil spirits,
and every thing bore the appearance of utter
neglect.

The owner of this spot was such as might have
been expected from its appearance. He was a
careless, thriftless young fellow, by the name
of Rulif Van Pelt; as much noted through
the country round for his reckless good-natured
character, as for the strength of his arm and
his headlong courage.

His father, Dick Van Pelt, had been a jovial
old blade of the true Dutch school, thick in
head and solid in fist, slow at argument but
ready at a blow ; and it was remarked that as

Rulif Van Pelt. 107

the stout, stalwart boy who had sprung from
his loins increased in years and stature, he
began to prove the legitimacy of his descent
by the readiness with which in all cases of
emergency he resorted to the latter of these
two paternal peculiarities.

In process of time, however, Dick Van Pelt
had been gathered to his fathers, and Rulif
reigned in his stead. The old man, notwith-
standing his social habits, had been hardwork-
ing and thrifty, had looked well to his worldly
interests, and (to use the expression of his
neighbors) had kept matters and things as they
should be ; but his son inherited none of his
sire 's prudence or forecast. He succeeded to
the farm and the contents of his strong box.
The latter he soon made way with, and the
former went to wreck. The only members of
his household were a vinegar-tongued house-
keeper, who was cook, dairy-maid and factotum
in-doors, and a grizzled old negro named Jacob,
or, as the neighbors more usually called him,
"Cobe," who had grown grey and wrinkled
and wise under the Van Pelts of three genera-
tions. He hated work as much as his master,
slept in the sunshine, aided and abetted Rulif

io8 Ridif Van Pdt.

in all his mad pranks, and was a sore stumbling-
block in the path of the housekeeper.

It may well be imagined, between the viru-
lence of the one and the quiet encouragement
of the other, that RuHf remained pretty much
as nature had made him. But, although mat-
ters were sadly mismanaged at home, there
was such a fund of generous feeling at the bot-
tom of his disposition, that let him but once
get beyond his own domains, at every hearth
he had a welcome, and every hand was ready
to greet him. He was their leader in frolic,
and in moments of effervescence, their cham-
pion. At times, too, when the general har-
mony seemed likely to suffer from private feuds
among the younger members of the commu-
nity, if he found the parties to be headstrong,
and impassive to argument, he not infrequently
took the matter in his own hands and reduced
them to reason by shaking them until no
breath was left in their bodies.

" There goes Mad Rulif, God bless him ! "
was not an infrequent ejaculation of some
honest old Dutchman, as he gazed after the
brawny figure of the young man when he
would gallop by ; and there were younger and

Rulif Van Pelt. 109

brighter eyes, too, that stole anxious glances
after him ; and more than one little heart flut-
tered rapidly at the sound of his voice. Poor
girls ! they had all heard that his farm was run-
nmg to waste, and that he was on the road to
ruin ! But what of that ? Women are always
tender-hearted. They pitied him because he
was poor, and loved him because he was good
for nothing. They thought only of finding
their way into his heart; and left to their
fathers the more matter-of-fact task of investi-
gating his pockets.

Nor amid all this artillery of soft glances,
deep, dark eyes, rich, pouting lips, and glowing
cheeks, in which the blood came and went at
every word that he spoke, did Rulif escape
scathless; for at the distance of about two
miles from his abode, was a quiet, drowsy-look-
ing house, built of Dutch brick, with a low,
broad piazza in front of it, and which seemed
to have been nodding away for several centu-
ries, beneath the shade of half a dozen large
trees. In this house was one little window,
from which a beautiful face might have been
seen looking towards the road, at the time
when Rulif usually passed. And certain it is,

no Rtdif Van Pelt.

that these times were not infrequent; for it
became a matter of no little perplexity to the
deep thinkers of Westchester County, to ex-
plain why it was that, whatever may have been
Rulif's destination, whether north or south,
east or west, he invariably contrived, both in
going and coming, to pass this house.

There was one person, however, to whom it
was no secret, and this person was Garret Stry-
ker, the proprietor of that house, and of the
broad acres which surrounded it. He was a
stout, square-built little Dutchman, with a
portly abdomen, and a stubborn disposition,
who kept a keen eye upon his fair daughter
Annetje, and in Rulif, snuffed a lover in the
wind, with unerring sagacity. He gathered
his chicken under his wing, and watched the
bird of prey with unceasing vigilance. With
lovers of all descriptions he had no sympathy ;
but a suitor with empty pockets was his utter
abomination.

" There is Oloffe Van Giesen,*' he would
sometimes remark to her ; " if you must have
a husband, take him. You '11 be in luck if you
get him. He *s none of your roystering, harum-
scarum, good-for-nothing fellows, who scamper

Rulif Van Pelt. 1 1 1

around the country meddling with everybody's
concerns but their own. No, no; he has a
head — all is solid there " ; which last remark
was undoubtedly true, for he was one of the
most notoriously thick-headed fellows in the
whole neighborhood.

His daughter listened with a downcast eye
and a sinking heart. She made no reply, but
was unconvinced ; for Rulif had found no little
favor in her eyes, and a single tone of his voice,
or a single whisper of one of his wild pranks,
scattered all recollections of paternal advice to
the winds.

Rulif soon discovered that although the fair
Annetje lent a willing ear to his words, her
father watched him with a jealous eye ; but it
never entered into his head to conciliate the
old man by setting about the cultivation of
his farm in good earnest. He became wary,
and his visits to the house were at long inter-
vals, unless Garret Stryker happened to be
absent ; in which case, his horse had been more
than once seen tied at the gate, and Annetje
had been observed taking leave of him in a
manner which the coy maidens of Westchester
pronounced highly indecorous, and which they

112 Rulif Van Pelt.

warranted she would not have done had her
father been present.

Things had remained in this way for some
time, when Garret Stryker determined to take
counsel upon the matter. He forthwith dis-
patched a message to one Abram Van Skaak,
a near neighbor, and a man of profound sa^
gacity, who had successfully brought up and
married three unpromising daughters to opu-
lent farmers of the neighborhood, whom they
ruled with iron sway..

This council of sages was held under a large
sycamore tree directly beneath Annetje's win-
dow. It was a puzzling case, and nearly a
whole morning was consumed in deliberation ;
but they finally hit upon a project to drive
Rulif from the field. This was to invite all
the young people of the neighborhood to a
tea-drinking at Garret's house, and among
them, they had little doubt that one could be
found to enter the lists against Rulif, and
eventually, to carry captive the affections of
Garret's wilful daughter. But with all his
pent-up hostility, Garret dared not exclude
Rulif from the number of his guests, for he
knew that he was an iron-limbed fellow, of a

Ridif Van Pelt. 1 13

hot, fiery disposition, who, when fairly aroused,
would stick at nothing to gain his ends or to
pay off a grudge ; and Garret, being a prudent
as well as a stubborn man, had quite as little
relish for Rulif as an enemy as for a son-in-
law.

On the following day an old negro, who was
a sort of fixture to the place, was mounted on
Stryker's old cart-horse, and sallied out on
the important errand of giving the invitations,
which in those unsophisticated days were
by word of mouth. For miles around, that
horse went at a gallop; for Garret had cau-
tioned the rider not to let the grass grow
under his horse's feet ; and his messenger, con-
struing this expression to suit his own taste,
had been scouring in every direction, as if the
devil were at his heels ; and returned at night
with both the horse and himself fairly blown,
but with the full consciousness of having for-
gotten none of the neighbors, except one,
who, being rather poor than otherwise, had
no right to be remembered.

It was on a fine, sunny afternoon, at that
season of the year when autumn is just blend-
ing into winter, that Rulif, wholly unaware

114 RtUif Van Pelt.

how unwelcome a guest he would be, mounted
his horse and sallied out to the mansion of
the Strykers.

He had strange feelings as he rode along,
but he manfully choked down his heart in its
various attempts to throttle him ; and as the
best mode of putting an end to his suspense
he scampered along at full gallop.

When the trees, which embowered the house,
met his eye, he had an odd kind of misgiving,
and for the first time in his life felt a dread of
encountering the keen eye of his choleric host.

He was not the man, however, to give way
to idle fancies ; so, rousing himself, he dashed
up to the door at full speed. He flung his
reins to a negro, who stood ready to take his
horse, and walked boldly into the house.

Garret's reception of his young guest was
cordial ; for his heart seemed to expand as his
house filled, and his manners became par-
ticularly gracious, because at the moment
when Rulif entered he observed that his
daughter was apparently lending a willing ear
to the soft whispers of Oloffe Van Giesen,
whom he had so repeatedly recommended to
her especial consideration.

Rulif Van Pelt. 115

The girl is listening to reason," thought he.
Annetje is making a fool of herself," thought
Rulif, as his quick eye rested upon her and her
companion.

It was not his nature to indulge long in
suspicion ; but as the evening waned, and he
observed her still engaged with the solid-headed
Oloffe, he at first grew restless, then downright
angry ; and at last, in a spirit of pique, devoted
himself to the blooming daughter of one An-
thony Van Bummel, a neighboring farmer, who
was well-to-do in the world, and who was one
of his warmest admirers. His attentions
in this quarter grew so marked, that the
gossips who sat round the capacious fire-place
and kept a watchful eye upon the doings of
the young people, remarked that there might
have been some mistake in the stories about
Rulif and Annetje, and that another than she
might become Mrs. Van Pelt.

The same idea may have straggled into the
head of Garret Stryker, and dispersed the
mists which had settled about his brain ; or it
may be that his nature expanded and grew
genial under the influence of the foaming ale
which, in large pewter flagons, circulated freely

1 1 6 Rulif Van Pelt.

among the guests; but certain it is, that
as the night advanced, his manner towards
Rulif relaxed. He urged him to indulge in
potations of the same beverage of which he had
partaken so freely, slapped him roughly but
kindly on the shoulder, told him that his father
was one of the finest old blades in the country,
and that he was " a chip of the old block."

It was observed, however, that in proportion
as her father's spirits rose, Annetje grew quiet.
Her interest in the words of the admiring
Oloffe seemed to decrease, and finally she with-
drew from him, and seated herself in a window,
where she was partially hid from view.

The change of manner in his host had a
singular effect upon Rulif. He grew quiet,
answered at random to the remarks of Miss
Van Bummel, and finally fell into profound
thought, from which he aroused himself to
slap his thigh with such force that it sounded
like the report of a pistol, and to walk straight
out of the room in search of Garret, who had
gone out a few moments before.

The precise nature of what passed between
the two is not known, but Rulif soon returned ;
and with a quivering lip sought Annetje, who

Rulif Van Pelt. 117

was still sitting in the window, counting the
stars and watching him out of the comer of
her eye.

" Good-bye, Annetje," said he, in a tremu-
lous voice, " I 'm going."

Annetje, had not forgotten how much of
the evening he had passed in whispering in the
ear of the rival beauty. She felt piqued and
perhaps a little, — ^just the very least in the
world, — ^jealous, so she made no reply.

" Annetje," said Rulif, in an agitated tone,
for his heart was full, and he was struck by
her coldness, "will you not say good-night?
Are you, too, against me? Your father has*
not treated me as he should have done, but I
did not expect this from you." He paused, as
if hoping for an answer.

Annetje was proud, and although her little
heart beat as if it would burst, she remained
silent.

'*Well, well," said Rulif, drawing a long
breath and taking her hand. " Perhaps it was
folly for me to hope that one so bright and
beautiful as you are could love me ; but I did
hope so, and I have been grievously punished
for my presumption."

ii8 Rulif Van Pelt.

He pressed her hand, dropped it ; and before
she could utter a word he was gone.

She sprang up to follow him, for pique, anger,
jealousy, all, all were forgotten, but after tak-
ing one or two hasty steps, she drew back, and
with a mingled feeling of irresolution and
helplessness, sank into h6r seat, burying her
face in her hands, while the tears gushed from
between her fingers.

In no very gay humor Rulif groped his way
in^ the stable and led out his horse, muttering
curses against crabbed, crusty old fathers, who
seemed to be put into the world only for the
purpose of crossing promising young fellows
like himself ; and in his ebullition of anger, he
din not spare Annetje herself, upon whom he
bestowed every epithet indicating the extreme
of fickleness and mutability.

He was in no humor to seek his home,
and to listen to the homilies of his housekeeper ;
so he sprang upon his horse, drove his heels
into his ribs, and dashed across the bridge
which spanned a stream near the house, his
horse's hoofs, as they struck the loose planks,
echoing like thunder along the valley.

Down the narrow road, and up Valen-

Rulif Van Pelt. 1 1 9

tine's hill he galloped, the sparks flying from
his horse's heels at every bound. Nor did
he draw rein until he found himself upon the
crest of a high hill, and felt the cool night
breeze fanning his cheek.

There was not a cloud in the sky. He ran
his eye over the landscape (for it was as light
as day). Hill and valley, forest and farm, were
distinctly visible, hemmed in by the distant
waters of the Sound, which gleamed in the
moonlight like a stream of silver. But S.ulif
saw none of this. His pause was but mo-
mentary ; and another blow of his heels sent
his horse scouring along the road at full gallop.
So fierce and swift was his speed that the hot
breath steamed from the nostrils of his horse
in a light cloud. At one time he scudded on
as if fleeing from the black shadow which flit-
ted after him like a phantom horseman ; at
another he plunged into a by-road, so dark and
shadowy that it seemed to be the yawning
mouth of a cavern.

The coolness of the night air, however, grad-
ually had the effect of calming his feelings,
and as it grew later, he bethought him that it
was time to seek his home.

1 20 Ridif Van Pelt.

When he arrived at this conclusion he was
in a narrow road, shut in on both sides by
a forest ; and even the nearest way was
long and circuitous, unless he chose to take a
short cut through the woods. Though there
was no path, he did not hesitate, but leaped
his horse over the fence into the bushes. He
was a thorough woodsman, and there was not
a forest between King's Bridge and Sing Sing,
or between the Hudson and the Sound, that
he had not traversed with dog and gun, until
each leafy nook was as familiar to him as his
own door-yard. But still his road was not
an easy one. At times the branch of a
tree came in contact with his cheek. Then
his horse reared and plunged as he encountered
a bush ; and finally was brought to a halt by
the trunk of a large prostrate tree, which he
obstinately refused to leap.

Rulif did not urge him on, but dropping the
reins, and thrusting his hands in his pockets,
broke out into a low, thoughtful whistle, while
his horse commenced cropping the bushes.

" Well, nothing will be gained by sitting
here,** thought he. So, seeing the moonlight
resting on an open space at a short distance, he

Ridif Van Pelt. 121

dismounted and made his way thither through
the thick underwood.

He found himself in a small clearing filled
with stumps and low bushes. In the centre of
it stood a solitary tree, which had been blasted
by lightning, and which now towered up like
a hoary giant, while from its trunk a scathed
limb projected like a skeleton arm. From
beneath its roots the water of a spring gushed
out, sparkling like diamonds, and lost itself in
the grass. Rulif walked up to the tree, and
scarcely conscious of what he did, seated him-
self on a log at its foot, and, with his cheeks
resting between his hands, began to ponder
over the events of the past evening. How
long he sat there he did not know. He was
aroused by hearing a plashing in the water
close to him, but supposing it to be caused by a
muskrat he did not look up. The sound was
renewed, as if a person were pouring water
from one vessel into another. Rulif now
raised his head, and was not a little startled at
seeing within a few feet of him a dried-up old
man, attired in an antiquated Dutch garb, with
a red woollen cap on his head, filling two flagons
from the spring. As he finished, he paused and

122 Rulif Van PelL

fixed a dull, leaden stare upon Rulif, then taking
up his vessels began to move off through the
bushes.

His features were strange, and his whole garb
and appearance were so grotesque and out-
landish that Rulif determined to know more of
him ; so he called out to him, but the stranger
kept on his way without reply.

" The fellow 's deaf ; but have a word with
him I will. Devil of a pretty place and time
of night for him to be prowling around the
country with two jugs, and not a house within
a mile."

Rulif strode rapidly after him; but to his
surprise he found that the pace of the other
was as rapid as his own, and that increase
his as he might, still the old man maintained
the same relative distance between them. Ru-
lif, however, was not the person to yield his
point, and when the stranger left the clearing
and plunged into the woods his pursuer fol-
lowed 'Close at his heels, although it was so
dark that he could scarcely keep him in sight.
Before long they came to another clearing,
in the centre of which, to Rulif*s great sur-
prise, stood a strange-looking house. It

Rulif Van Pelt. 1 23

seemed very old and capacious; and, as far
as he could judge, was built of brick, with
high, narrow windows and huge, heavy doors ;
but he could form no idea of its exact size ; for
the shadows from the trees were so thick that
its outline was lost in darkness.

" It 's very strange,'* muttered he. " I
never saw nor heard of this house before ;
and I 'd be sworn that I knew every piece
of brick and mortar within twenty miles."

He paused to examine it more closely, and
then turned to look for his guide ; but he
was gone. His curiosity, however, was fully
awakened. He knocked at the door ; but
there was no answer. He then pushed it
open, and went boldly in. The hall was dark
and dreary, and as the door swung shut with
a noise that rang through the whole building,
his heart sank. He hallooed loudly, but there
was no reply except the echo of his own
voice.

Groping his way along the wall, he came to
a door, which he opened, and found himself
in a large chamber, dimly lighted by the
moon shining through the windows. A few
embers were smouldering on the hearth.

1 24 Rulif Van Pelt.

giving an uncertain and ghost-like air to the
room.

Rulif drew a chair in front of the fire-
place, and throwing himself in it, stretched
his feet to the fire and determined to make
himself comfortable. He felt that he had
done every thing necessary to deprive his
entrance of a stealthy character, and having
performed this duty, he thought that any
further advances must come from his host.
If he were inclined to be friendly, Rulif was
the very man for him; "if not,** — Rulif did
not complete the sentence, but looked down
upon his brawny figure, and recollected that its
ponderous strength had borne the brunt of
much more rough usage than he was likely to
receive at the hands of the stranger whom he
had so recently seen.

Whilst he was indulging these reflections,
his attention was attracted by the creaking of
the door.

" Oh, ho ! here he comes ! " thought he,
turning his chair so as to be in full sight of
whoever should enter.

Scarcely had he done so, when a little anti-
quated man, so shrunken and withered that he

Rnlif Van Pelt. 1 25

seemed to have half a dozen centuries on his
shoulders, and attired in broad-skirted small-
clothes, with huge buckles on his shoes, a large
cocked hat upon his head, slowly entered, carry-
ing in his hand a heavy brass candlestick, such
as Rulif recollected to have seen copied in old
pictures.
" Now for it,'' thought he. " I '11 catch it."
But the other, although he looked carefully
about the room, took no notice of him ; and
turning about bowed civilly to the door,
which thereupon swung shut. Advancing
to the table, he placed the candlestick on
it, fixed a dull lack lustr&.eye on Rulif, with-
out uttering a word, and then turned to the
door, bowed — ^the door swung open, the old
man glided out, bowed, the door closed, and
Rulif was left to his meditations.

" This is a wonderful house," muttered he,
sitting up in his chair and rubbing his eyes.
" Civility goes a great way in it. I never saw
a door acknowledge it, unless there were a man
behind it I can't be dreaming," said he, sta-
ring about him. " No, there 's the candlestick,
which certainly was not there when I came in,
and there 's the door itself."

1 26 Rulif Van Pelt.

The more Rulif thought over the matter,
the more uncomfortable he became. He now
recollected that the old man glided rather than
walked ; that his face was pale, and had a blu-
ish tint like that of a corpse, and that his fin-
gers were thin and bony, like the talons of a
bird.

There was nothing in the appearance of the
room to afford any clue to the character of the
house. It was large and dreary, with heavy
black rafters crossing it. In a comer stood a
great lumbering clothes-press, and a chest
bound with iron bands. In the centre was a
ponderous oaken table, with quaintly carved
legs, and dark from age. Around it stood
eleven heavy chairs with high backs. On the
top of each a grotesque face, wrought from
the massive frame, grinned and gibbered at
Its neighbor across the table. It was one of
these which Rulif had drawn from its place
and now occupied. On the opposite side of
the room were twelve pegs driven in the wall,
and from each hung a long Dutch pipe.
The chimney was long and gaping, like the
mouth of a cavern ; the woodwork about it,
from smoke, had become as dark as mahogany,

Rtdif Van Pelt. 127

and was ornamented with fantastic figures, and
strange goblin faces, which, with their puckered
features and lolling tongues appeared to Rulif 's
excited imagination to be indulging devilish
glee at his expense ; and as he watched them
more intently, they seemed endued with life.
He could have sworn that they rolled their
eyes and leered at him, and even that he heard
a faint giggle. He coughed loudly, moved
himself in the chair, and pushed it heavily
across the floor.

" Tut, tut, this is nonsense," said he ; "I 'm
no child to yield to it."

He endeavored to hum a tune, and to be at
his ease ; but it would not do ; his voice grad-
ually sank into silence, and he again found
himself with his eyes riveted on the wood-
work.

At last his restlessness became so intoler-
able that he resolved, come what might, he
would rouse the house.

He looked towards the door ; and to his
astonishment perceived that each chair which
but a moment before had been empty, was
now occupied by a fantastic-looking fellow in
cocked hat and old-fashioned smallclothes. In

128 Rulif Van Pelt.

front of each was a large pewter mug and a
pipe ; the former of which each applied to his
lips, and bowed solemnly to his comrades,
who returned his salute in the same formal,
• manner. Rulif *s hair began to bristle, for he
saw that all of them had the same bluish com-
plexion which he had observed in his guide,
and that their eyes alone seemed to have life ;
and these glowed like coals.

At length one of them, looking towards Rulif,
said in a low, sepulchral tone : " Where 's
Anthony Quackenboss ? . His seat is empty."

The others looked at the chair and shook
their heads.

" He *11 come at two,*' said one,

" He *11 come at two ! '' echoed the others ;
and there was a dead silence.

" I suppose I 've got the absent gentleman's
chair," thought Rulif ; " and, upon my life, I 'd
much rather he were in it than I. He can't
come until two, and if I could conveniently
absent myself, I 'd do it ; for such a cutthroat-
looking company I never beheld."

But no time was given him to escape from
his dilemma, for in the midst of his reflections
the door opened, and a tall, portly figure, but

Ridif Van Pelt. 129

with the same death-like complexion as the
others, entered. He bowed formally to the
company, and approaching the chair in which
Rulif sat, lifted it to the table as if it were
empty, and seated himself.

A chill, as of ice, shot through Rulif at the
touch, and rallying his faculties he made a
desperate leap, expecting to throw the stran-
ger upon the table in front of him ; but, to his
amazement he encountered no obstacle except
the table, with which he came violently in
contact, leaving the new-comer in the very seat
which he had abandoned.

" Thunder and lightning ! I jumped through
him ! " exclaimed Van Pelt. With a single
bound he was at the door, and seized the knob.
He tugged, but it was as immovable as iron.
He suddenly thought of the expedient of the
old man, and stepping back bowed as politely
as the flurry of his spirits would permit ; still
it remained closed. The idea of escape by the
window then occurred to him, but that too,
was fast \ so, seeing no mode of egress, he
crouched in a comer with his back against the
wooden chest, ready to fight to the death.
But the company did not seem to notice him.

1 30 Rulif Van Pelt.

" Where *s Brom Van Hook? " inquired a tall,
thin fellow, with a heavy eye and a hooked nose,
who had hitherto smoked without speaking ?

" He could n't come. He always was a sad
dog," remarked one.

" He killed his wife, although it was never
known/'

A general " hist " silenced the speaker.
" Dead men tell no tales.*'

"When did you see Teunis Kuypers?" in-
quired the tall man with a heavy eye. "Ah,
was n't he a rare boy ? "

" Ay, that he was," responded several, in a
breath.

"He died in the year I/CXD," added a little
sententious ghost, who had tippled away at his
mug until he had become maudlin. " I was at
his funeral."

Rulif pricked up his ears, for the very farm
which he now owned had once belonged to a
man of that name, a roystering jovial fellow,
who had died nearly a century previously.

" Teunis' father was a close-fisted old fellow,
but he 's paying for it. He won't be loose in
a hundred years yet," added the other, shaking
his head. " He buried his money — no one

Ridif Van Pelt. 131

can tell where," He sank his voice almost to
a whisper, and placing his finger on the end
of his nose, with a mysterious wink, added:
*' on his old farm are three beech trees growing
together, with a rock wedged between their
roots, and there he used to sit by the hour.
Some think that his gold lies not far from
them."

He shook his head mysteriously, and apply-
ing his pipe to his lips, smoked vehemently.

It may well be imagined that Rulif lost
not a word of this. He was the owner of
the identical farm described, and now learned
a secret respecting it which he had never
dreamed of.

He was in hopes of hearing something which
might afford a further clute to the particular
spot, but the speaker had evidently exhausted
his knowledge, and the conversation took
another turn.

By degrees, as the night waned, Rulif lost
his awe of the ghostly company; but he,
nevertheless, kept a wary eye on the door,
determined to lose no opportunity of retreat.
As he studied the faces around him he was
struck by a kind of family resemblance

132 Ridif Van Pelt.

which these antiquated cavaliers bore to his
own neighbors ; and one in particular, a short,
apoplectic-looking fellow, in an exceedingly
broad-skirted suit of snuff-colored smallclothes,
he would have sworn to have stepped out from
a picture which hung in the hall of Annetje's
own house. The conversation, too, related to
the neighborhood. They spoke of places
which he had known from boyhood, of farms,
and of family names ; but the persons to whom
they referred were dead and gone a century
ago ; for he had a faint recollection of having
heard his grandfather speak of them as old
men even when he was a boy.

"It 's very strange,'* thought he. "To hear
these old fellows talk one would suppose that
Yonkers was n't Yonkers ; that I was n't Rulif
Van Pelt, but some one else, and that my farm
belonged to a wind-dried old curmudgeon who
has been buried for a century. But I '11 see
them out."

This doughty resolution was not a little
strengthened by hearing the crow of a distant
cock. The sound caught the ears of the revel-
lers ; for they paused to listen, and their mirth,
which had hitherto been of rather a boisterous

RtdifVanPeli. 133

character for men of their age and constitu-
tion, g^dually died away, and finally a dead
silence reigned through the room. The gray
of daylight was stealing in at the windows.
As the light increased they seemed to grow
more pale and thin, their outlines became
more and more indistinct, until they appeared
like shadowy forms of mist. The room, too,
was fading. Its walls waxed more and more
transparent ; the massive chairs, the heavy
woodwork, the great, gaping chimney-place
were all melting away. At last distant ob-
jects became visible through them. Trees
and bushes could be seen, at first, dimly, as
if enveloped in fog; but still amid them
could be distinguished the outlines of the
room. The red sun rose over the hills. Rulif
rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them
again all was gone. In front of him was
the tall forest and the blasted tree, with the
little spring at its foot, and near him stood
his horse cropping the grass. He turned to
examine the great chest, but found that he
was leaning against the trunk of a fallen tree.

He stared about him, and rubbed his eyes.

'' Then it was all a dream, and old Garret

1 34 Rtdif Van Pelt.

Stryker's ale has been humming in my head all
night. But dream or not," said he, " I '11 look
into the matter, and we '11 see who Teunis
Kuypers was."

With this resolution formed, he mounted his
horse and was not long in reaching home.

For weeks together he was missed from his
usual haunts. No one could tell what had be-
come of him. Cobe was the only man in the
secret, and he looked wise and kept his own
counsel. He merely informed the good people
that Rulif knew what he was about, and that
he'd astonish them one of these days — two
valuable pieces of information, which each
man hastened to circulate without loss of time.
Rumors, too, got abroad that Rulif had sud-
denly betaken himself to the cultivation of his
farm ; for that such digging and delving as was
going on there had not been heard of since
Yonkers was a town or Westchester a county.

One thing, however, which puzzled them
was, that the most of these indications of an
agricultural taste were carried on in the woods,
at the foot of trees where nothing could
be planted, and among rocks where nothing
could grow, or in dark out-of-the-way holes

Rulif Van Pelt. 135

and comers of the place, which the sun could
never reach.

Day after day, Rulif, followed by his old
body-guard, was seen to sally out, armed with
pick-axe and spade, and to direct his course to
the woods; and as these things continued,
and no explanation was given, people began
to point to their heads, and to whisper that all
was not right there with Rulif,

These remarks were always made in a cau-
tious manner, for whatever doubts might have
existed as to his sanity, the vigor of his arm
and the weight of his fist remained unques-
tioned, and several of those who mentioned
their fears, at the same time suggested that
the less the subject was spoken of the safer it
might be ; and at all events cautioned all per-
sons against quoting them as authority.

Suddenly, however, a new cause of specula-
tion arose. Cobe was seen to crack his knuc-
kles, whistle to himself, and to shake his head
with profound satisfaction. Then a total re-
generation was observed in Rulif's farm.
The house was enlarged and repaired, fences
were mended, fields which had run to waste
were reclaimed, horses and oxen were pur-

1 36 Ridif Van Pelt.

chased, the farm was well stocked, and in less
than two months the whole place bore a thrifty
appearance. Reports then got afloat of Rulif's
having inherited a large property from some
unknown relative, of whom no one had ever
heard.

But more strange than all, Rulif was seen
one fine afternoon, mounted on his black horse,
directing his course to the abode of the fair
Annetje Stryker. There was nothing stealthy
or underhanded in his movements ; his whole
air and manner were those of a person who
felt that he was of weight in the world.
He rode leisurely up to the door, and walked
in. Old Garret met him cordially, and with
somewhat of deference, for the rumors which
were in circulation had reached his ears,
and Rulif had risen rapidly in his estimation.
The fair Annetje, too, with a downcast eye
and crimson cheek, saw him enter.

She had heard of his changed fortunes ; she
called to mind their last parting, and her heart
died within her. Rulif recollected it, and, al-
though he was ready to take her in his arms
and tell her that he had forgiven all, yet there
was still lingering a little feeling of pique, which

Rtdif Van Pelt. 137

caused him to salute her coldly, while he re-
quested a few moments private conversation
with her father.

The minutes, however, lengthened into an
hour before they reappeared. No sooner, how-
ever, did they re-enter the room than Rulif,
without a word, saluted Annetje with a succes-
sion of hearty smacks, without the slightest
sign of disapprobation from her father, who
walked up and down the room in profound ab-
straction, muttering to himself:

" Mein Gott ! one hundred tousand ! Mein
Gott ! It 's wonderful ! "

The precise nature of the communication
which produced such excitement in the mind
of the usually sedate Garret Stryker does not
appear. But it was such as to quiet all oppo-
sition to Rulif's designs upon Annetje, and to
display his character in a light in which her
father had never hitherto viewed it.

In a few weeks he led his blooming bride to
the altar, and when at last the worthy Garret
had pillowed his head among the tombstones,
Rulif stepped into his house and acres. And
as years rolled on half a dozen hard-fisted little
Van Pelts had made their appearance, proving

138 Rulif Van Pelt.

their right to the name by their aptness at a
quarrel, and by becoming the terror of the neigh-
borhood through the strong marauding propen-
sities, which they indulged at the expense of all
the orchards and watermelon patches within a
mile of their paternal domain.

As Rulif advanced in years he kept at home
and grew sedate, and his opinions being always
backed by a pocketful of ready money, were of
great weight in the community. And, although
the old rantipole spirit would sometimes ooze
out and lead him to gallop oflf to a horse-
race or a cock-fight, yet these were regarded
merely as trifling vagaries, unpardonable in-
deed in a poor man, but which in a rich man
should be winked at and forgotten.

And when in process of time he was laid in
the family vault of the Van Pelts, a long address
was made by Dominie Van Blarcon, who des-
canted at length upon the depth of his mind
and pocket, to the great edification of his
hearers, who retired sadly to their houses,
thinking to themselves that verily a great man
had departed from among them.

OBED GROOT.

NOT a great while after the Revolutionary
war, a hard-drinking, hard-swearing,
roystering gentleman by the name of Tom
Floyd, lived in Queen's County, on Long Island.
He kept his hounds and racers, and led a helter-
skelter life. But his hard-riding, and hard-drink-
ing came to a' sudden end by his breaking his
neck while following his dogs after a fox down
the Cedar-Swamp road. He was taken up dead.
But wild stories got in circulation about him :
some said that the moment he fell dead the
fox sprang up a bank, spread out a huge pair
of wings, and flapped off in the air, and that
there was the print of a cloven foot in the bank
where he disappeared.

Above all, it was well attested that this hard-
riding gentleman still kept up his hunting
habits; and on the anniversary of his death
swept down the Cedar-Swamp road in his red

139

140 Obed GrooL

jockey-coat and yellow smallclothes, at the
heels of his hounds ; and woe betide the belated
straggler who fell in his way on that night ; for
it was said that he preferred human game to
all others.

On such occasions the good farmers and
their wives, and daughters, and sons, and sons-
in-law, and daughters-in-law, scampered off to
bed and buried their heads beneath the bed-
clothes until the infernal crew had passed.

Indeed, it is said that in the haste and
confusion with which they beat their retreat,
it not unfrequently happened that the wrong
person got into the wrong bed, which some-
times led to unpleasant consequences. Be that
as it may, it was a well-authenticated fact that
the tough old 'Squire still kept up his annual
chase ; and there was but one person in the
whole country who doubted it, and dared to say
so.

This was a man named Obed Groot, who
lived on the Cedar-Swamp road, in a large house
surrounded by rich fields and teeming bams.
He was a keen, bitter fellow, with an eye like a
a rat's, a nose like a hawk's, and a mouth tight
shut and with the comers tumed so far down.

Obed Groot. 141

that there seemed to be some risk of their
meeting under his chin, and beheading it.

He had set out in life with the determina-
tion to become rich, and to let nothing stand
in its way. Shutting his eyes and ears to
every thing that did not tend to that particular
end, he succeeded. To be sure, he had not
stopped to secure many friends by the way,
but he did not need them.

Friends were always wanting something, or
telling about some case of dreadful poverty, or
of some fellow with a broken leg and starving
family ; or, in other words, always endeavoring
to circumvent the iron button that kept watch
over the breeches-pocket in which lay his purse,
and which button seemed to glare out at all the
world like a great eye, defying any one to get
the better of it.

Obed had once been married, and his wife
had died many years before. Whether he had
starved her to death, or whether she had died
because her heart became frozen for want of
any warmth in his, it matters not ; she died
and he buried her decently, though some said
he had hinted it was a pity that when she went
she had forgotten to take with her a little girl

142 Obed Groot.

whom she had borne to him and had left behind.
But the child was left ; and though neglected
and almost forgotten, she throve ; and as she
grew older, and sat and watched him with
her earnest, solemn eyes, a feeling almost akin
to fear would come over him. It was observed,
too, that when he had driven a more than
usually hard bargain, or one in which there
had been a more than usual economy of hon-
esty, he kept out of her way.

As time passed on, and Obed grew in years, and
Esther — for so was his daughter called — grew in
youth and beauty, he began to feel a kind of
pride in her, and sometimes listened to her
words and to her reading from the Good Book ;
for he had become a man of wealth and note,
and having secured a fair share of the treasures
of earth, he felt inclined to make a small ven-
ture for those of heaven. It was said that
once or twice, at her request, he had opened a
small comer of his heart to an appeal for charity.
'T is true his acts were rather insignificant ; and
afterward, as if frightened at what he had done,
he buttoned his breeches-pocket tighter than
ever. But still the ice had melted once, and
there was hope that the time might come when
there would be a general thaw.

Obed Groot. 1 43

It had been a hard year upon the farmers. Lit-
tle rain had fallen ; their crops were cut off, and
there was general distress throughout the coun-
try, Obed Groot, with his usual good-fortune,
had escaped.

It chanced, at the time of which we speak,
that he was sitting in his house, with one eye
on his ledger and the other on the road, along
which he saw a man approaching. As the man
came near his gate, Obed raised the ledger eye
also, and watched him with both. The man
paused as if hesitating, and then came in. If
there was hesitation in his manner at first,
there was none now, for his tread was firm and
strong, and his single knock at the door loud
and bold.

" Come in,** said Obed.

The stranger entered. He was large in frame ;
his tread denoted strength and resolution ; his
eye was clear and frank ; his hair slightly
streaked with gray; his features heavy and
massive, like those of a mastiff. He looked
for a moment at Obed, who returned his look
with an eye keen and watchful as that of a ter-
rier, then nodded to him. " Good-morning,
John Wakeman ; I 'm glad to see you," said

1 44 Obed Groot.

he. The words were kind ; the tone was cold
and harsh.

" I suppose you know my errand, sir/* said
the man, with some embarrassment of manner.

"I have not the least idea of it," replied
Obed, tartly. He fidgeted as he spoke, for he
knew it well.

" I came to ask for time to pay my debt to
you. It has been a rough year; every thing
seems to have gone wrong."

Obed's face grew hard as flint, and the cor-
ners of his mouth very nearly met under his
chin. At last he snarled out : " That 's the
cry of every one just now."

" What can I do? " said the man.

"If you can't give money, give what you
can. I 41 take your farm ; it 's worth some-
thing," was the sharp reply.

" But if I part with it, how shall I live ? "

"There are plenty of people in the world
who don't own farms ; live as they do," replied
Obed.

" Mr. Groot," said the other, " my farm is
but a small one, and not worth much ; but it is
all that I have, and the only home that I have
for my wife. If I were alone, you should have

Obed Groot. 145

it this very hour. As it is, I will not see her
turned out of doors if I can help it."

" Just as you please/* replied Obed. " I
would rather have the money. I have more
land now than I can use."

As he spoke he waved his hand with some
complacency towards the window which com-
manded a view of his own lands. The man
drew a long breath as he looked over the wide
fields, and ample bams and granaries filled
to bursting, and thought of his own blighted
harvest. He said nothing, however, but stood
looking on the floor and apparently pondering
something in his mind.

" Well," said he at length, " I suppose my
errand here has been a waste of time ? "

" Entirely so ! "

The farmer stood for a moment as if he
would have urged his plea once more, but at
last turning to the door, he wished Obed good-'
morning in a quiet, civil tone, and went out.

Obed watched him until he had passed the
gate, then turned to his ledger. " I was just
making out that fellow's account when he
came in. It *s very odd."

As he spoke, there was a quiet footstep in

146 Obed GrooL

the room, and Esther came in and took her
seat at his side. He was too much engrossed
to notice her, but kept on adding up the fig-
ures and muttering to himself : " Everybody
wants time. I never asked for time, and I *11
not give it/* His mouth closed, and the cor-
ners went down again. ** I hate poor people,"
said he, poising his pen over the paper while
he ran his eye up and down the page to see
that he had omitted no item. " Ninety-five
dollars and seventy-five cents. I verily believe
that there was never a poor man who was an
honest one — not one ; I think it 's absolutely
wicked to be so confoundedly poor." He felt
a hand pressing on his. He looked up ; a pair
of soft, remonstrating eyes were searching his.

" Well, Esther, what now ? "

" Father, there was once One so poor that
He knew not where to lay His head."

" Eh ! what," said he, looking round and still
holding his pen poised over the paper, "so
poor as that ; who was he ? "

" One who healed the sick, gave sight to the
blind, raised the dead, pointed out the path to
heaven shown by acts of loving kindness and
mercy to man, and who at last died for us."

Obed Graot. 147

Tears came in the girl's eyes as she bent for-
ward and looked earnestly in the sharp, hard
face which peered so curiously in her own.

" Oh ! ah ! " said he, as the meaning of her
words slowly made its way into his mind.
" All very true, no doubt — a matter of religion,
I never mix religion with business. You 're a
very good little girl, Esther. I 'm glad that
you read your Bible. Let me see ! where was
I ? " He bent his nose to his ledger. " Ninety-
five dollars and seventy-five cents."

The girl said nothing more, but left the room.
Obed kept on with his nose as close to his
ledger as ever, but he could not get on with
his account ; for every now and then the idea
of how strange it must be to have no place to
sleep in would come across his mind and bother
him as he was adding up a column.

At last his mind wandered so much that he
could not follow up his accounts, and he gave
it up. He buttoned up his coat, went out, and
strolled about his grounds. He looked into
his cribs and barns and cattle-stalls. He was
quite jocose with his workmen, but his merri-
ment was hard and biting, and made their
teeth chatter as they laughed. As it grew

148 Obed Groot.

later in the day, he went in and tackled his
accounts again. By this time, the idle fancy
which had bothered him before was completely
out of his mind, and he soon found out the
exact amount of John Wakeman's debt, and
calculated the interest on it up to that very hour.

It was now late in the day, and was growing
dark. Candles were lighted. Obed drank his
tea, drew his chair to the fire, and toasted his
feet, but he did every thing mechanically. His
daughter took her usual seat at the fireside, but
he did not notice her.

In truth, in going over those accounts, he
had discovered that John Wakeman was in his
debt more than he had imagined.

It was but a trifle, perhaps John knew it;
but if he did not, or had forgotten it, it might
not be amiss to refresh his memory. He got
up and looked out of the window. Every
thing outside was black as jet ; and the wind
was rising as if a storm were brewing. Still
that " difference " in his account worried him.

"Father, you had better not go to John
Wakeman's to-night,'* said the girl, abruptly.

The old man started, for her words were the
echo of his thoughts.

Obed Graot 1 49

" What put that into your head ? " demanded
he, testily.

" Were you not thinking of him ? " asked the
girl.

A denial was trembling on his lips ; but he
gulped it back before it had become a full-
fledged lie. It 's no matter, child, what I was
thinking of."

But whatever might have been his intention
he abandoned it and went to bed. Still through
the night that " difference " perplexed him and
made him toss and tumble in his sleep, until at
last he got John Wakeman, his ledger, and the
" difference " so mixed and jumbled up to
gether that he could not tell whether that
" difference " was John Wakeman or the ledger,
or something else, or what it was. In the
midst of this confusion he awoke, and found
the daylight streaming in the room and the
rain pattering on the window-panes.

All day long that " difference " haunted him ;
but the storm kept on. He flattened his
nose against the window-panes, and blew his
breath on them, and watched the sky; but
still it stormed. Late in the evening the rain
ceased, although the night looked black and

1 50 Obed Groot.

lowering. Obed could restrain himself no
longer, and ordered his horse.

His daughter attempted to remonstrate ; but
he chid her sternly, and with his feeling sharp-
ened, and his venom increased against his
debtor by the opposition, he left the house.

" Guy ! Mas' Obed ! " exclaimed his negro
Sam as he led out the horse. " A won'ful bad
storm is coming! won'ful bad ! Ef I was you,
Mas' Obed, I 'd stay to hum. It 's Tom Floyd's
night. He '11 be out sure as my name 's Sam.
Whoa ! Pepper ! Whoa ! Even the ole hoss
don't want to go."

" He '11 want to go before I 've done with
him," said Obed, roughly.

As he spoke he brushed the hand of his old
retainer from the bridle, and set out at a brisk
trot.

Sam shook his head. " Mas' Obed don't
b'lieve nuffin ! But he '11 lam some day ; he
will."

Obed rode rapidly on ; for the dark clouds
were drifting across the sky, and the deep sigh-
ing of the wind showed that the storm was not
over. The light of the young moon was com-
pletely hidden by the black masses which

Obed Groot. 151

swept over it. Although it was dark when he
started, yet before he reached his place of des-
tination he could scarcely see the road, and the
rain began to fall. Pepper, however, kept
steadily on, until a light gleaming from the
window of a house at the roadside showed that
he had reached his journey's end. Dismount-
ing, he led his horse under a shed, and tied
him there. Then groping his way to the house
he knocked at the door.

" Come in ! '* said a voice from within.

Obed pulled up the latch and entered. John
Wakeman was sitting at a table mending an
old shoe. Near him sat his wife, a pale,
anxious-looking woman. They both looked up
as Obed entered, and a slight expression of
pain crossed the man's face when he saw his
visitor, and the woman cast a quick, apprehen-
sive glance at her husband ; but neither spoke.

The man instinctively pushed a chair towards
Obed.

" I want no chair, John Wakeman," said
Obed, gruffly, " nor do I want to waste words. I
came about that account of mine. Here it is."

He extended the paper to the man, who
took it and held it to the light.

152 Obed Groat.

" It *s right, I suppose ? "

" Quite right."

" Well," said Obed, somewhat staggered by
this prompt admission of a matter which he
had supposed would be disputed, ** I want
my money."

As he spoke he planted himself firmly in the
middle of the floor, and crossed his hands on
the top of a chair, as if he intended to remain
there until his claim was satisfied.

" Mr. Groot," said the man in a grave tone,
" I will pay you as soon as I can. I have not
the money ; I have told you so before, I tell you
so again." As he spoke he placed the shoe on
the table, and came around to where Obed
stood.

" My sheep have died. The storm has beaten
my grain to the ground and destroyed the
crop, and the drought has killed my com — ^a
whole year's labor lost. Others have suffered
as well as I. The hand of the Almighty is
upon us, and we must submit."

" I don *t see what I have to do with that,"
replied Obed, testily. " That 's a matter be-
tween you and Providence. I don't see why
I should be mixed up with it; and I won't

ObedGrooL 153

be," said he, resolutely; "I won't be!" I
did n't come here to hear sermons."

" Others, who have met with the same mis-
fortune, have found indulgence," answered the
man ; " why should not I ? "

" Because you are dealing with me and not
with others," replied Obed, sharply. " I let
no man dictate to me how I am to manage my
affairs, and I follow no one's example. I 've
got a head," said he, tapping his forehead with
his forefinger, " and I judge for myself. I will
not be swindled out of my money. If you
have not honesty enough to pay your debt, I '11
make you." His lips quivered, and he shook
his thin finger in the very face of the farmer.

The man's eyes flashed at the last words;,
the red blood flushed his cheeks, and he took
a step forward. As he did so, he felt a touch
on his arm. It was but the slight pressure of
his wife's fingers, and even in his anger he
turned to acknowledge the anxious yet affec-
tionate glance which was fixed on him. " Do
not fear, Mary," said he. " These things are
hard to bear, and I forgot myself for a moment ;
but it 's over now. Let him say his say, I '11
bear it."

1 54 Obed Groot.

Obed turned sharply on the woman. " As
to you/* said he, tartly, " I must and will say — '*

The farmer laid his hand heavily on his
shoulder and looked in his face.

" Say nothing that may in any way reflect
on Jur. She *s a hard-working, loving woman.
She bears her heavy lot without repining. The
little sunshine which God sends into this house
comes from her. Say nothing of her, for un-
less your looks belie you, you will say what I
will not bear. To me she is all that is left of
fortune or friends, and next to God I honor
her.'*

There was a grave sternness in the tone and
manner of the farmer as he spoke, and a kin-
dling of the steady eye which warned Obed
that he was treading on dangerous ground.

" As to your wife, I have no fault to find
with her," replied he ; " she owes me nothing.
I never deal with women, never — never ! *'

" It *s well," said the other, in the same
grave manner. " And now, as you have said
what you came for, and I have given you my
answer, it is useless to speak further about the
matter. The night is a rough one ; will you
stay here until the storm abates ? **

Obed Groot. 155

" Stay here ! " screamed Obed, fairly excited
beyond his patience by the sturdy calmness of
his debtor ; " not a minute/'

As he spoke he made for the door.
" Think again," said the farmer ; " the night
is dreadful, and there is wild work going on
without."

" I '11 go though the Devil himself were in my
path ! '* As he spoke he pushed past the far-
mer, and opening the door, dashed out into
the darkness. He was absent but a minute.
When he returned, the farmer was still stand-
ing where he had left him.

" John Wakeman," said he, slowly and in a
tone of concentrated wrath, " you Ve braved
me this night. Now, mark my words, / 7/ hunt
you down ! "

The farmer eyed him calmly, and then rais-
ing his hand slowly, pointed upward, but said
not a word.

" I suppose that means Providence again,"
said Obed with a snarl. Whenever a man
loses money, it 's always the work of Provi-
idence, but when he makes it, it 's always his
own. We *11 see what that same Providence
will do when you get me after you."

156 Obed Groot.

Again he left the house, but as he did so
he turned and looked back. The man stood
with the same unmoved expression, and his fin-
ger still pointed to heaven.

" Let him point/' growled he. " If I do not

teach him to pay his debts, may " He did

not finish his sentence, for he had reached the
shed under which he had tied his horse. He
led him out, and -battling with the wind and
rain, contrived to mount him, and turned his
head homeward.

John Wakeman was right : it was a wild
night. The wind swept down the valley in
long gusts. The trees creaked and groaned,
and the lightning flashed across the road. The
sky was inky black, and the horse splashed
heavily through the mud and water which filled
the road. But Obed*s venom was too much
aroused and his bosom too full of vindictive
plans for him to heed the turmoil around him.
"Let him point to heaven,'* muttered he.
"We 41 see what it will do for him. If I don't
hunt him down, may I "

Again he paused, for his ear caught a sound
which came sweeping down the valley, min-
gling strangely with the wailing of the storm.

Obed Groot. 157

Pepper too grew restive, and made one or two
strong efforts to dash off.

" Dogs out on such a night as this," muttered
he. " Whose can they be ? *'

For a moment his heart stood still, and a
strange dread came over him, for he recollected
the last words of his negro Sam, and associated
them in his mind with the noises which were
borne along on the wind. But Obed was not
a man to yield to idle fancies. His life had
been hard and practical, and with a feeling
almost of contempt for himself, he turned
his horse homeward. But Pepper had grown
so restive that he could scarcely hold him ; and
he seemed half wild with terror. His pace
was quickened to a gallop. His rider, however,
was able to govern him, until the same wild
cry again came ringing in his ears and close at
hand. Obed glanced behind him. As he did
so a bright flash of lightning flickered through
the darkness and showed a pack of hounds
coming down upon him, with lolling tongues
and fiery eyes ; and he also recognized the red
coat and buck-skin smallclothes of Tom
Floyd. Instinctively a prayer rose to his lips ;
but at the same moment his last words to John

1 58 Obed GrooL

Wakeman flashed through his mind and choked
it in his throat.

It was no time for hesitation. He gave rein
to his horse and dashed off at full speed. He
assaulted the sides of Pepper with a shower of
blows, and drove his heels into his ribs. For a
moment he thought that he was gaining on his
pursuers. But it was only a turn in the road
which had shut out their cry. The next mo-
ment, nearer than before, he heard the deep
baying of the phantom hounds amid the bel-
lowing of the storm, and loud above all the
shout of the goblin horseman : " Hunt the
miser down ! *'

Obed set his teeth ; for amid his terrors, the
feeling of resistance was strong. There was
no need now to urge his horse ; for, wild with
fright and startled by the sharp flashes of light-
ning and the roar of the thunder, his speed
was terrific. Down the Cedar-Swamp road
toward the village of Mosquito Cove, Obed
scoured along, the mud spattering behind him,
his coat-tails fluttering in the wind. Pepper
had got the very devil in him. Bit and bridle
were but as threads to hold him in. At every
yell of the hounds he seemed to leap a hun-

Obed Groot. 159

dred feet. Through the village, up the hill,
across the fields of the Valentines, down Fresh-
Pond Lane, through the swamp at the end of
it, along the borders of the Sound, across West
Beach, and over the upland of West Island, he
tore along, and close at his heels, fast and fu-
rious, followed the goblin pack.

In the centre of West Island was a large
house occupied by a hard-riding, jovial old
fellow, who kept his hounds and lived with
open heart and open hand.

The sound of the approaching chase roused
him from his lair, and as Obed sped by he saw
the old General — as he was called — standing at
his window, with his nightcap in his hand, yell-
ing like mad and cheering on the hunt.

He thought that he could hear sounds of
mocking laughter and loud greetings inter-
changed between the goblin rider and the Gen-
eral. He made an effort to pull in his horse.
He might as well have tried to rule a whirl-
wind. Down the bank he bounded, over the
bridge, along the causeway, through the mud
and water, across East Island, along East
Beach, up Peacock's Lane, his hoofs striking
fire at every step.

1 60 Obed GrooL

The stiff-sided inhabitants of Buckram were
aroused by the fiendish shouts. They knew too
well the sound of Tom Floyd's hounds, and
Obed saw them scampering in every direction
as he flitted by.

Through the valley of Buckram, across by
Meadow Side, over the hills of Oyster Bay,
along the upper road, and through the quiet
town of Jericho, the hunt swept on, until the
dark wnste of Hempstead Plains opened in
view. Full twenty miles had Obed come, and
still no signs of flagging in his steed. And now
before him stretched out a barren waste, dark,
dreary, and almost without limit. He knew
that far off to the east lay the village of Hemp-
stead, and he hoped that the horse might turn
in that direction. But he was disappointed.
Pepper headed toward the east, and dashed
across the plains until he came to the great
south road.

Trees, houses, and fences, seen dimly in the
dark, flitted past like shadows. Occasionally
a deep bark would burst from the throat of
some startled watch-dog as Obed fled by,
changed into a yell of terror at the goblin pack
which followed at his heels. The longer

Obed Groot. 1 6 1

Pepper ran the more furious gfrew his speed.
Obed began to grow delirious. He yelled and
screamed, now shrieking for help, now joining
in the loud shouts of his pursuers. Thus he
was carried on through South Oyster Bay and
Babylon, when once more the horse turned to
the north, and homeward. But Obed now was
past all thought.

He was carried on he knew not how ; he
cared not whither. Thought, feeling, fear, and
sense were all gone. Instinctively he kept his
seat. He knew that he was hurried through
bushes and thickets, over ploughed fields and
fences ; he felt that Pepper was his master, and
that any further struggle was useless; he
yielded to his fate, and was whirled on as if in
a dream ; he knew not how it ended, nor when
nor where his horse stopped ; he had an indis-
tinct idea of hearing voices about him, and of
trampling feet, and anxious faces, and of being
carried into a house ; but it was all confused.

When he came to himself he was in his own
bed. There was a feeling of pain about his
head, as if he had received a blow. His daugh-
ter was sitting at a table near him ; but still
his mind was not clear. He looked around him

1 62 Obed GrooL

and muttered something about "that differ-
ence/* and " hounds and Tom Floyd and Pep-
per," and while he was speaking he dropped off
into a doze.

Late in the evening he awoke again. His
head was clear, and his mind was ripe for busi-
ness. He called his daughter to him.

"Where 's Pepper?'*

Esther looked at him with a strange expres-
sion.

" He 's in the stable."

"Alive?"

" Yes ; what should kill him ? "

Obed had it on his tongue to tell his story,
but he remembered that he had not figured to
much advantage in the night's adventure ; so
he held his peace, although he did mutter,
" That horse's wind and bottom are tremen-
dous."

Again he sank back upon his pillow, and
with half-closed eyes lay watching his daughter
as she worked. As he watched her dreamy
eyes and finely chiselled features, with the deli-
cate and almost ethereal bloom on her cheek,
and the glossy hair which rested on her brows,
he thought that angels must look as she did.

Obed GrooL 1 63

"Angels have nbthing of earth in them,"
said the girl.

Again that startling echo to his thoughts.
Her eyes were fixed on his, and again that
searching, unfathomable glance which made
him cower.

At that moment he heard a firm strong tread
on the doorstep, and a single loud bold knock
at the door. He knew it well, although he
could not hear the voice ; and he knew well
the step which was mounting the stairs with-
out haste, deliberate and resolved ; and it did
not need the glance which he gave to tell him
that John Wakeman was coming in.

" Ah ! I know it *s about that difference,"
muttered he, watching his visitor with eyes
brilliant with feverish excitement-
John Wakeman wasted no words. " I Ve
brought your money, sir," said he, taking out
a well-worn leather purse.

He began to count out the money, on the
table. The girl drew back and watched the two
with an expression of the most intense sadness.

As he finished counting it, and Obed stretched
out his hand to grasp it, the girl hastily rose
and put her hand on his.

164 Obed Groot.

" O father ! don't touch it. I know that it
comes from a wrecked household, from a broken
heart. Do not take it, I implore you, as you
value all that is most dear to you. There is
some wealth which comes coupled with a curse.
All such, is that which is wrung from the heart-
blood of the poor. Touch it not." She bowed
her head over his hand, and held it clasped in
both of hers.

" Take it away,'' said she, abruptly raising
her head and speaking fast. " Tempt him not
to his ruin."

The farmer looked steadily at her. There
was an expression of honest admiration in his
eyes, and for a moment his voice faltered.

" The money is justly his ; I tempt him not.
There is no wrong in my giving, nor in his
receiving what is due to him."

" There, there ! Esther ! you hear him," said
Obed, in a querulous tone ; " he says it 's mine."

The girl heeded him not. "The money is
due indeed, and that you offered it is right;
but is there nothing due from the rich to the
poor? Is there not somewhere an account
kept which shows that although the debtor
may owe gold, the creditor owes mercy ? I Ve

Obed GrooL 165

read it somewhere. John, now answer me?
Has it not cost you sorrow, perhaps tears, to
procure this money ? "

" It 's honestly come by,'* said the man.

" I know that well," replied the girl, taking
his hard hand. "But are there no tears on
that gold ? "

The man was silent. Esther stood looking
in his face with the same gfrave earnestness.

" I Ve heard of your misfortunes,*' said she.
** Would not this aid you to get on again ? '*

"I cannot say but that it would," replied
the man.

"You hear that, father?** said she, eagerly.
** You know that he has lost nearly all he had
on earth. You will let him have it until better
times ? Will you not ? "

Obed turned testily on his bed. " The girl *s
mad ! Reach me that inkstand, John. I will
write you a receipt for the money."

" Father——"

"Not a word more! not a single word!
Hitherto you Ve been a quiet, obedient girL
Od rat the girl, what *s4n her? "

The farmer reached the pen and ink to the
old mian, who sat up in the bed, and wrote the

1 66 Obed Groot.

receipt. The other took it, folded it up, and
put it in his pocket.

Before he went he approached Esther and
took her hand. " I once had a daughter.
Thank God she died before we came to be as
poor as we are now. It was a heavy sorrow
then ; but I can see the kindness of it now ; for
it would have added a g^eat weight to my
heart to have dimmed her young life with the
sorrows which overshadow mine. But if she
had lived I feel that she would have been like
you, and I could have asked nothing better
for her."

He turned abruptly from her, and his heavy
step was heard as he descended the stairs and
left the house.

Once more Esther approached the bed.
"Father, let me call him back before he is
gone too far. I implore it for your sake ; I
implore it for the love of heaven ! Oh ! you
know not all that is depending on your words
and acts this night."

Despite the sadness of her tone, Obed was
fairly roused to wrath. "I tell you no! z.
thousand times no! Were the very hell-
hounds which placed me here in this very room,
I 'd tell you «^ ./ "

Obed GrooL 167

Esther drew back, and a mysterious change
came over her as she spoke : " Now hear me
yet again. It is not too late/'

In her voice there was a tone of solemn sad-
ness such as he had never heard before, and
which filled his heart with foreboding ; but the
grim demon which had griped it so long still
kept his hold there, and struggled hard to keep
his holier feelings out. He shook his head.

She did not regard his gesture, but spoke on :
"From my childhood until now I have been
with you. I have seen you grow from poverty
to wealth. You were an earnest, striving, frugal
man ; you struggled and fought your way on ;
you placed dollar by dollar, and as you saw
your store increase your heart grew glad.'*

The old man chuckled in his bed, and rubbed
his hands, his eye gleaming with satisfaction.

" Aye, girl, money is power ; remember that,
always remember that.*'

But she waved her hand and went on : " As
your heart rejoiced it also grew hard. Its bet-
ter feelings one by one were frozen out, until
at last but one single overwhelming passion
filled it ; crushing to atoms all others, and sit^
ting there alone — the sordid love of gain."

1 68 Obed GrooL

The old man made a gesture of impatience.
" I 'm no worse than my neighbors," muttered
he ; " not a whit worse."

The girl still spoke ; " I watched this feeling
as it grew. Child as I was, I tried to battle
against it, and turn you to better things. I
hoped that as I should become older, and as
years would give weight and influence to my
words, I still might redeem the past and win
you from your threatened destiny. It was a
hard task, for all went well with you. When
blight and mildew swept the lands of others,
you gathered in your harvest rich and plentiful.
No murrain touched your flocks. You turned
to other ventures, and still success followed
you. Wherever you went, whatever you did,
the gifts of God were showered on you in rich
profusion. But amid them all, your heart still
clung to earth and them. It was never raised
in gratitude to the Giver, nor did it dream of
the object of the gift."

** You *re wrong, my child, indeed you are,"
said the old man, with a tremulous voice. " I
was grateful, indeed I was. I said my prayers
always''

" Idle words, bearing no fruit. What acts of

Obed GrooL 1 69

yours ever showed that the blessings which you
received were extended by you to others?'*
demanded the girl, sternly.

Obed muttered something about throwing
away money on wasteful, improvident vaga-
bonds.

" The poor were about you by hundreds,
nay by thousands ; the earth was teeming with
them. Their cry for help, by you ever un-
heeded, went up to heaven with the story of its
suflfering, with not one voice to say that you
had sheltered, fed, or clothed. Such as sought
you, you taunted with the calamities which
Heaven had cast upon them, as crimes of their
own committing. The result came. Your
house was shunned by every one who felt that
sorrow and suffering formed a claim to aid and
sympathy from all who belonged to the great
brotherhood of man. I was your child, and
had an errand to fulfil. Time was waning fast ;
the frosts of age were on your brow. What
if eternity were reached and found you lost to
mercy and to God ! "

" Who are you," demanded the old man,
Sitting up in his bed, " that you speak thus to
me?"

1 70 Obed Groot.

" As yet your child ! *'

" I was afraid that you had forgotten it," re-
plied he ; " I '11 have no more of this.*'

The girl looked sadly in his face. " Be it as
you have said ; my mission *s ended."

As she spoke, she stood before him no longer
a timid, shrinking child. She still wore the
semblance of her former self, but there was an
air almost of glory about her person, and a
majesty in her clear eye, from which all earthly
passion had fled, and her low startling tones
spoke like those of conscience.

*'Now hear and see the hidden past, and
from that divine the future."

All about him seemed to whirl. The room,
the furniture, the bed, whirled and whirled, and
then became a mist. The mist gathered into
masses which filled the room and pressed upon
him. He shook with mortal fear, and closed
' his eyes, for he shrank from what was to come.
Again the voice of Esther came stealing on his
ear ; so quiet yet so commanding that he could
not but listen.

" Now hear the past, as you know it not, and
yet as you know it well. The flight of time
rolls back upon itself, and as the curtain which

Obed GrooL 171

shrouds the past draws back, I see a feeble,
sickly boy with his head bowed at; his mother's
knee, his hands clasped, and his lips uttering a
lisping prayer; a very feeble prayer to reach so
far ; yet whispered as it was, it ascended to the
Great Throne, borne upward by the strong fer-
vid supplication of her who brought him into
being, and now sheltered him beneath her strong
love. I saw her borne to her grave, and the boy,
as yet a child, left to the care of strangers, be-
neath whose neglect the lessons of his childhood
were swept away. His nature became stern,
and he grew up a cold and hardened man,
strong to fight the great battle of life, and
struggle for the rewards of earth, without one
thought of her who had sheltered his young life,
without one thought of the great reckoning to
come. Again I see him in his youth, a plod-
ding, striving man, with earnest brow and toil-
hardened hands. He is sitting at a table
with a book in his hand, thumbed and well
worn. It marks the progress of his gains, and
he pores and ponders over it, turning from
it only to look at a small box near by which
holds those gains, the story of which is writ-
ten in the book. Upon a shelf near by, there

172 Obed GrooL

lies another book. It is dust covered, and
has been undisturbed for months. A spider
has woven his web around it, and rests there
in security. It is a book of promises — of
promises which never fail."

Obed turned uneasily in his bed. " I know
it well," muttered he. " My mother's Bible.
She gave it when I was a boy, a very little
boy."

The girl did not seem to hear him. " Prom-
ises made when the earth was in its infancy and
humanity was tainted first with sin. Promises
which have ever been fulfilled, and ever been
renewed, as man's wants call them into birth,
and whose glad realization shall exist when
earth and man shall be swept away, and time
itself merged in the great ocean of which it
forms a drop—- eternity."

Obed raised his eyes ; but he could not bear
the earnest, mysterious gaze that met his own.
He trembled at her words, and yet he could
not but love and reverence her ; for he felt their
truth like Holy Writ.

" Speak, I charge you," said he, with half-im-
ploring, half-shrinking gesture. " Let me know
the truth. Who are you ? "

Obed Groot 1 73

" Listen/* answered the girl. " From child-
hood until now, there was one commissioned
from on high to guard and direct the footsteps
of that man, as he journeyed along the road
which leads to the dark valley, and to point out
the seed of good works which might be sowed
on earth and yield a glorious harvest for the gar-
ners of eternity. But he would none of her
counsel. He heeded not her whisperings.
Seared in conscience and flint in heart, he
turned away from the calls of heaven and fixed
his eyes on earth."

" O my child ! my child ! do not rebuke
me thus,** said the wretched man, clasping his
hands and bowing his head upon them. If I
was hard to others, I was never so to thee. If
I labored to become rich, it was that you might
enjoy it. If I loved gold ; if I perilled all to
get it, it was because my love for you was
greater than all else ! Do not speak thus. I
cannot bear it.'*

He bowed his head upon his clasped hands,
and the tears trickled through his fingers.

"Your love to me was the last hope of
heaven. The guardian spirit took her station
at your side through life. In form, your child.

1 74 Obed Groot.

the object of your love and care ; but still your
guardian — with the same solemn duties, with
the same high trust committed to her, and with
that holy love alone as the last link of the
golden chain to lead you from earth to heaven.
With mortal form came mortal frailties; but
far above all earthly cares was the high and
holy purpose for which she came. Now tell
me before I go (for earth is passed with me for-
ever), was I recreant to my trust ? *'

The old man spoke not, for his heart was
filled with its own communings. The memory
of the past was sweeping through his mind ;
wasted opportunities, — the great omissions, —
time speeding on and pointing to age, decrepi-
tude, and death. He dared not look up at his
accuser. He dared not answer. At last the
words, ** My child,'* burst from his full heart,
" speak one word of pardon for the past."
There was no response. Once more he looked
up. His daughter lay lifeless before him. With
a wild cry he flung himself at her side.

" Esther, dear child of my heart ! guardian
spirit ! whoever thou art, come back ; oh ! leave
me not forever! **

The lifeless form moved not ; and as he

T/

Obed Groot. 1 75

struggled to raise her from the ground he saw
standing at her side the semblance of herself,
ethereal as a phantom, serenely beautiful, yet
calm and passionless as ice. He stretched out
his hand imploringly.

" If thou art she who has been life-long at
my side, to keep me from sin, come back ! By
Him who died upon the cross, I implore it.
By Him who heard the dying cry of one who
led a life of crime and sought His mercy only
in the throes of death, and pardoned ; for His
holy sake, pardon and return.**

" Man ! " replied the spirit, " I can never
again be child of thine. While mortal means
could lead you right, my errand was on earth.
That time is past ; the future is in the hand of
Him whom we all obey."

" Yet hear me once again," said the wretched
man, rising up and confronting the form, whose
dim outline was shadowed still before him.
** By your own value of man's salvation ! as
you would not abandon a human soul to perdi-
tion, and consign it to everlasting woe, I charge
you desert me not in this my hour of utmost
need and deepest agony, when all that is good
within me is battling for life against the power

1 76 Obed GrooL

of evil. Daughter ! spirit, whatever you are !
you dare not thus desert me for whose redemp-
tion such a price was paid. There is a promise
in the book which you, even you, oft read
to me: *That no call for mercy, however
late, shall be unheeded ; that no sin, however
dark, but can be washed away/ You dare not
thus desert your trust, and take your flight
to Him who sent you, with your errand unful-
filled ; for my cry for mercy and pardon would
follow you to His very feet and condemn you
there."

There was no response to his passionate ap-
peal, and as he held out his hands imploringly,
the dim form faded from his sight, all about
him seemed to change, and the mist which had
obscured his brain swept away. He was lying
in his bed.

The sunlight was streaming through the
window ; a bird was carolling on a tree near by,
and his daughter was sitting at his bedside,
holding his hand in hers. The old man clasped
his arms about her, and held her fast.

" My child, my own dear child ! I promise
all. I *11 do all you ask. I never knew till now
bow great a debt I owe, and how little of it I

Obed GrooL 177

hava paid — ^the great debt which riches owe to
poverty."

He bowed his head upon her shoulder, his
gray locks mingling with her bright tresses, and
still he kept his hold. He whispered in her
ear:

" Send back John Wakeman's money. I '11
not take it."

His daughter looked at him with a bewil-
dered air, and passed her hand afJectionately
over his gray hair, but made no reply.

'* Don't tell me that it *s too late," said he,
passionately.

He looked at the table where John had left
the money. There was nothing there.

" Where is it ? I saw him count it out on
that very table."

Esther took his hand gently. " You Ve been
dreaming, father. You had a fall from your
horse, and have been dreaming ever since."

Could that strange, sad scene be but a
dream. If it were, he thanked God that it was
so, and not a stern reality. Like the Israelite
king of old, he turned his face to the wall, but
in silence, and with that silence were mingled
prayers; prayers which were no longer idle

1 78 Obed Groot.

words, but which throve and bore fruit; and
when he arose from his bed of pain — for he
lingered there some days, — his resolutions had
taken shape, and settled in the one fixed pur-
pose of spreading sunshine in his path and
gladness in that of others. He felt that the
dream was a revelation from on high, and that
his daughter all unknowing was his guardian
angel still.

The first thing he did was to visit Pepper;
for he could not get the idea out of his head
that his midnight ride was a stem reality. He
examined him from head to heel, and thumped
his ribs. There had always been a prodigious
display of bone about Pepper, and it was all
there still.

" That horse is a wonder,'* muttered Obed.
Pepper looked over his shoulder at him as if he
agreed with him.

"We *11 keep what we know to ourselves,
won't we. Pepper? "

He tried to do so, but it was useless. Two
old negroes and a women had seen him on his
mad race, and the adventure got wind. He
denied it stoutly ; but with his denial its circu-
lation increased, until it obtained the full credit

Obed Groot 1 79

which it merited, and it passed into a proverb,
when one was dealing with a hard creditor:
" May you ride on Obed Groot's hunt ! ''

From that eventful night he changed his
ways. He sent for John Wakeman, and not
only gave him time to pay his debt, but helped
him forward in the world, so that in a few
years he became a thriving, prosperous man.

As Obed indulged the feeling of benevolence
and kindness to his fellow-man, it grew and
throve, so that his heart, from being of the
size of a dried currant, waxed large and gen-
erous in its impulses, and a poor neighbor,
whom he had rescued from poverty and vice,
swore that it was as large as a pumpkin.

From being shunned, his house became the
seat of hospitality; the corners of his mouth
lost the old habit of turning down, and his
chin was safe. His daughter was with him
still, with her calm counsels cheering him on,
and with a husband to help her, and with sev-
eral little guardian angels to tease and worry
Obed, and climb his knee and pull his hair ;
but he gathered them in his arms, and declared
that all the world could not produce their
equals.

1 80 Obed GrooL

His only regret was that he had not discov-
ered the grand secret of happiness until so late,
and that so much time had been wasted ere
life's true labor had been commenced.

HARRY BLAKE.

A Story of Circumstantial Evidence, founded on

Fact.

CHAPTER I.

AT about the time when the ill-feeling be-
tween England and her American colo-
nied had ripened into a rebellion, there stood
on the road between Albany and Schenectady
an old house whose walls had been reared by
the sturdy hand of some Dutch builder. It
was time-worn and gray, but every thing about
it was solid and strong. The barns were roomy
and extensive, with wide doors and windows,
and had a comfortable, liberal air.

From the lowest branch of a large sycamore
in front of this house, hung a sign-board orna-
mented with the figure of a horse of a deep-
blue color — a variety of that animal common
in those days, but at present extinct, — indicat-
ing that it was a place of public entertainment.

z8z

1 8 2 Harry Blake.

Such an intimation, however, was little needed ;
for the Blue Horse was noted throughout the
whole country round for its good ale, its warm
fireside, and its jolly, jovial landlord, who told
a story, drank his ale, and smoked his pipe,
with any man in the country. Could he but
get a crony at his bar-room fire, he cared little
whether the fellow had an empty pocket or
not, nor whether the ale which was making
him mellow was ever paid for.

It is no wonder, then, that the Blue Horse
became the delight of the men, and the horror
of their wives, who wondered why their hus-
bands would wander oflf, at night, to old Garret
Quackenboss* house, and listen to his royster-
ing stories, when they could be so much more
usefully employed at home, in splitting wood
or rocking the baby.

Rumors of their hostility reached the ears of
old Garrett ; but he smoked his pipe, closed
his eyes, and forgot them.

His customers did the same ; and in spite of
conjugal opposition, the bar-room of the Blue
Horse was rarely empty.

This bar-room was large, with a wide fire-
place, and great sturdy fire-dogs, on which

Harry Blake. 1 83

were huge logs of wood. Heavy rafters,
blackened by smoke, crossed the ceiling of the
room.

Resting on hooks over the fire-place were
several guns, covered with dust and cobwebs,
They probably had never been used since the
landlord was a boy ; but he occasionally cast an
anxious eye on them, as rumors of war and strife
reached him from the more eastern colonies.

Wooden chairs, wooden tables, a wooden
dresser, garnished with pewter plates, shining
like so many mirrors, and a huge arm-chair in
the chimney-comer, with Garret Quackenboss'
fat body resting in it, completed the furniture
of the room.

It was about five o'clock in the afternoon of
a bright day in autumn, and in this very room,
and in the midst of a group of men, with the
face of the landlord showing out like a red sun
from among them, that we open our narrative.

The men were all of the same class as Garret
— ^plain, sturdy, substantial, — either farmers,
who had loitered in to pick up the gossip of
the day ; or those who, on their way from
Albany or Schenectady, had dropped in to
have a talk with old Garret before indulging in

1 84 Harry Blake.

that same pleasure with their better halves at
home.

The subject, however, which now engrossed
them was far from a pleasant one. It seemed
so even to the landlord, for he was silent, and
turned a deaf ear to what was said ; it being a
fixed rule of his to interfere in no man's difficul-
ties but his own. And as this, which was a hot
dialogue between two of his guests, was evi-
dently fast verging into a quarrel, — ^after eying
the parties steadily for some time, — ^he thrust
his hands into his pockets and left the room.

Before closing the door, he turned and looked
solemnly at the disputants, to let them see
that their misconduct was depriving them of
the light of his countenance. Then shaking
his head, and emitting from his throat a grum-
bling indication of discontent, he shut the door
and went out.

" Come, come — stop this, Wickliffe," said an
old man, one of the party, on whom, at least.
Garret's look had produced an effect. " Don't
you see you 've driven Garret away ? This
dispute is mere nonsense."

The person whom he addressed was a short,
square-built man, with a dark, sallow face, a

Harry Blake. 1 85

pair of dark black eyes, which at times kindled
and glowed like fire, a low wrinkled forehead,
and lips that twitched, baring and showing his
teeth like a mastiff preparing to bite.

And as he sat there, with his fingers working
with anger, and his lips writhing, he was about
as ugly a looking fellow as one would wish to
see.

He turned slowly to the old man who spoke,
and snapping his fingers in his face, said :
" That for old Garret ! Let him go ; and as for
this dispute with that boy, it *s my aflfair, not
yours ; so don't meddle with what don't con-
cern you."

The old man drew back abashed. But the
opponent of Wicklifle, a young fellow of three
or four and twenty, whose frank, handsome
countenance, and glad eye, seemed the war-
rant of an open, generous disposition, now
spoke :

"Well, Wicklifle," said he, " if you will quar-
rel, I won't. I did n't want to drive Garret
out of his own bar-room ; and you know he
never will stay where there 's quarrelling. So
drink your ale, and we '11 say no more about
this matter."

1 86 Harry Blake.

" But I U'ill say more about it," retorted the
man, half rising from his seat, and at the same
time shaking his fist at him, " I will say more ;
and who '11 hinder me, I *d like to know that ?
And as for you, Mr. Harry Blake, I will say,
too, that in spite of your big carcass, you have
no more spirit than a woman. That is what
I '11 say.*'

" Well, well, say it, if you please," replied
Blake, going to the fire and seating himself on
a bench in front of it, " I 'm sure I don't care."

As he spoke, he laughed; and leaning for-
ward, he picked up a chip which lay on the
hearth, and commenced stirring the fire with
it, at the same time whistling, and paying no
attention to what his opponent said, other than
by an occasional laugh at his evident anger at
being thus foiled.

At last Wickliflfe, turning to a man who sat
next to him, muttered something between his
teeth which drew the cry of " Shame ! shame !"
from those around him, and of which Blake
caught but the words, " Mary Lincoln." But
they brought him to his feet.

" What 's that you say about Mary Lin-
coln ? " said he, advancing towards the man,

Harry Blake. 187

who was looking at him with a grin of satisfac-
tion at having at last aroused him.

" Nothing, nothing/* replied several, at the
same time rising and placing themselves be-
tween him and Wickliffe. Don't mind him,
Harry ; don't mind him. He *s in a passion,
and does n't mean what he says."

" But I do mean it ! " shouted Wickliffe. " I
do mean it ; and I repeat it. Mary Lincoln
is "

" What ? " demanded Blake, quickly, his eyes
glowing with anger.

Wickliffe eyed him for a moment with a
fixed, dogged stare, and it might have been
shame, or it might have been a feeling of trepi-
dation at having at length aroused Blake, and
at seeing him, with every muscle of his power-
ful frame strung, ready to leap upon him, that
deterred him; for he turned away his head,
and said: "No matter what. I 've said it
once, and that 's enough. They all heard it."

Harry Blake's face, from a deep scarlet, be-
came deadly pale, as he answered : " Wickliffe,
I did not hear what you said ; but I dare you
to repeat it. If you do, and there is one word
in it that should not be, this hour will be the

i88 Harry Blake.

bitterest of your life. I *m not the man to
make a threat and not to act up to it.*'

He stood for a moment waiting for him to
repeat his remark, and then turned on his heel
and walked to the furthest end of the room ;
and as he did so it was remarked by several,
who thought nothing of it at the time, but
who remembered it long afterwards, when every
word then uttered and every action done be-
came important, that he ground his teeth to-
gether, and, seizing a large knife which lay on
the table, with his teeth still set, drove it into
the table, and left it sticking there.

Still his adversary did not seem disposed to
give up a dispute which it was evident had al-
ready been carried too far ; for he demanded in
an impatient tone :

" What *s Mary Lincoln to you, my young
fellow, that you bristle up so at the very men-
tion of her name?"

" What is she to you ? ** continued he, becom-
ing still more excited ; " be she pure as snow
— or — or — or what I will not name ! One
would think you were a sweetheart. A glo-
rious pair you 'd make ! Your red-hot temper
would be finely balanced against her sweet

Harry Blake. 1 89

face and disposition. Sweet — very sweet ; and
so yielding and dove-like that she cannot
resist importunity, however improper. Ha!
ha ! It makes me laugh.*'

His laugh, however, was a short one ; for
the words were scarcely out of his mouth
before Blake was upon him.

Exerting his great strength, now doubly in-
creased by fury, he fairly swung the speaker
from his feet, and flung him across the room
and against the opposite wall, striking which
he fell at full length upon the floor.

For a moment Wickliffe lay stunned; but
recovering himself, he sprang up, and, shaking
his fist at Blake, and saying, "My boy, you
may take the measure of your coffin after this ;
for you '11 need one," darted from the room.
A speedy opportunity might have been afforded
to him to put his threat into execution, had
not several persons sprang forward and seized
Blake, as he was following, and held him back
by main force.

" Don't stop me ! " exclaimed he, struggling
to get loose, and dragging the strong men who
held him across the floor.

" Let loose your hold, Dick Wells ; let loose

1 90 Harry Blake.

your grip," exclaimed he to one who held him
by the shoulders with a strength nearly equal
to hi^ own, " or I '11 strike you."

" No, you won't, Harry," replied the other.
" But even if you do, I '11 not let you go on a
fool's errand. So there's no use scuffling in
that way."

Blake saw that nothing was to be gained in a
struggle with so many, and so he said, " Loose
your hold. I '11 promise not to follow him. But
mark me," said he, as they relinquished their
hold, "you have this night heard this scoun-
drel defame one of the purest girls that ever
lived, because he had a grudge against me, and
knew that she was to be my wife. He shall
pay for it, if it cost me my life."

" Come, come, Harry, don't be a boy," said
the old man who had before interferred with
Wickliffe. "The man was half drunk and
quarrelsome, and saw that you could n't stom-
ach what he was saying, and so he said it. No
one cares for him, or his words. We all know
that Mary Lincoln has n't her equal in these
parts, (jrod bless her ! I only wish she was
my own child. Not but what my poor little
Kate is a good girl ; and kind and affectionate,

Harry Blake. 191

too, poor little Kate is; but yet, she is not
Mary Lincoln ; but Kate is a good girl, though ;
a very good girl." And the old man shook his
head reproachfully, as if there were a small
voice whispering at his heart, that he should
not have placed his own poor little Kate next
after Mary Lincoln.

Harry Blake's face brightened, as he looked
at the old man ; and he took his hand and
shook it warmly.

" You 're rigjit, Adams — you 're right. Mary
needs no one to speak up for her. I see it.
God bless you for all your kind feelings tow-
ards her. And now that I think of it, Adams,
tell Kate that Mary may not be Mary Lincoln
long, and may soon want her to stand up with
her."

" I will do that, Harry," said the old farmer,
rubbing his hands together, " and right glad I
am to hear it ; but, Harry, you '11 not carry this
quarrel further — promise me — I can trust you,
I know."

Blake, however, laughed and shook his head.
" I '11 think of it," said he. '' * Beware of rash
promises,' was what I learnt from my copy-
book. But now I must go. Five miles are

192 Harry Blake.

between me and my home." As he spoke, he
turned from them and left the room, and in a
short time was heard galloping down the road.

He had not been gone many minutes,
when one of the company, an old man,
dressed in a suit of gray homespun, who had
been sitting by the fire a silent spectator of the
altercation, got up, and turning to a man who
was leaning carelessly against the opposite side
of the fireplace, said : " Come, Walton, let 's
follow Harry's example. Our paths are the
same, and we *11 go in company ; and as you
are the youngest, you can get the horses."

The person thus addressed seemed to agree
to the proposal, for after yawning and stretch-
ing himself, he went out, and in a few minutes
was heard calling from without, that the horses
were ready.

The road which they pursued was the one
already taken by Wickliffe and Blake ; and as
they had far to go, and it was late, they struck
into a brisk trot, so as to pass a dreary portion
of it, which ran through waste and forest, be-
fore the night set in.

Part of it was solitary enough, shrouded by
tall trees, covered with long weeping moss,

Harry Blake. 1 93

trailing from their branches to the earth, and re-
sembling locks blanched by age. And in other
parts, dense and tangled bushes, with giant
dead trees stretching out their leafless branches
over them, crowded up to the very road.

They were trotting briskly between two
gjreen walls of swamp and forest, when sud-
denly a sharp, shrill cry rose in the air. It
seemed to proceed from the woods a short dis-
tance in front of them.

They were both bold men ; but their cheeks
grew white, and they instinctively drew in their
horses.

" Was that a shout or a scream ? ** asked Gray-
son, turning his heavy whip in his hand, so as
to have its loaded handle ready for a blow.

" It smacked of both," replied Walton.

" Hark! there it is again.*'

Again the same pifercing cry rang through
the air, echoing through the woods until it
seemed to die away in a low wail.

" There 's foul play there,'* shouted Walton.
And giving his horse a sharp cut of the whip,
the animal sprang forward at a gallop.

^* There it is, again. Hark ! It is some one
begging for mercy."

1 94 Harry Blake.

" Stop, Walton/* said Grayson, reining in
his horse. " Did you hear the name ? "

" No."

" I did, and it was Harry. Can Harry Blake
be settling scores with that braggart Wickliffe ? "

" God of Heaven ! I hope not," exclaimed
Walton. "There was bad blood enough be-
tween them to lead to a dozen murders. Go
it, Jack," said he, again striking his horse,
" we '11 be upon them at the next turn of the
road. The bushes hide them now."

A dozen leaps of their horses brought them
round the copse of trees, which had shut out a
sight which now made them shudder.

Within twenty yards of them, extended on
his back, lay Wickliffe, dead. Bending over
him was Blake, grasping a knife, which was
driven up to the haft in his breast.

" Good God ! Harry Blake taken red-handed
in a murder ! " exclaimed Grayson, seeing Blake
endeavoring to pull the knife from the wound.
" Don 't stab him again. Oh ! Harry, Harry,
what have you done? "

Blake started up as they advanced. He
looked hastily about him ; made one or two
irresolute steps ; but before he could make up

Harry Blake. 1 95

his mind what to say or do, Walton sprang
from his horse, and flung himself upon him.
" Harry Blake, I charge you with murder.**

Blake stared at him. "Me! with murder?
Are you mad ? Why, I did n't kill him.*'

*' It won't do, Harry ; It won't do," said
Walton, bitterly. " I saw you with the knife in
your grasp — in his bosom — ^and him dead. Oh,
Harry! This is a sad ending of this after-
noon's quarrel.**

" Will you hear me ?** said Blake, earnestly,
" and you Caleb — you are older than Walton,
and less impetuous, listen to me. I came here
but a moment before yourself. I heard a per-

«

son calling for help, and galloping up, found
Wickliffe dead, with this knife driven in his
heart, and was endeavoring to pull it out when
you came up. This is truth, so help me God !
Don*t you believe me, Caleb.**

Grayson shook his head, as he replied :
" Would that I could, Harry, but as I hope to
be saved, I saw you stab him — I did.**

Harry clasped his hands together, as he
asked : "And do you intend to swear to that —
and to charge me with this deed ? **

** There is no help for it, as I see,** said Gray-

1 96 Harry Blake.

son. " The man is murdered. If you did n't
murder him, who did ? Answer me that.**

As he spoke he proceeded to examine the
body to see if it retained any signs of life ; but
it was motionless, with its open eyes staring at
the sky, and the teeth set hard, as if the spirit
had gone in agony. The knife had been driven
so truly that it must have passed directly
through the heart ; and the blood which had
gushed from the wound, had already saturated
the murdered man's clothes, through and
through, and formed a small pool in the road.

" Harry Blake," said the old man as he
drew the knife from the wound, " this is a fear-
ful deed, and the punishment is equally dread-
ful. You know that I am a magistrate and
must discharge my duty."

" And will you send me to prison on such a
charge as this?" asked Blake, bitterly.

The old man was silent.

"Did you ever know me to lie, Caleb?*'
said he.

" Never, Harry, never ! "

" And do you think I lie now ? "

" I don't know," replied Grayson. ** I never
before saw you when there was so great a risk

Harry Blake. 197

hanging over you. Oh ! Harry, Harry 1 " con-
tinued he, clasping his hands together and
looking at the young man, with an expression
in which terror and sorrow were strongly
blended, " I would rather have met any man
here than you. It will make many a sad heart
in this neighborhood. Why did you not
promise what Adams asked ? or, rather, why
did you leave us then ? *'

Blake shook his head as he answered:
" Caleb, what can I say more than I have said ?
If I repeat what I have just told you, you will
not believe me. I was coming along this road,
heard the screams of this man, galloped to this
spot, and found him dead with a knife in his
breast. I got off my horse to see what could
be done for him, and was drawing out the
knife when you came up. Had you been two
minutes sooner, or I one minute later, I should
have made the same charge against you which
you now make against me.*'

" But the cry — the words : * Mercy, mercy,
Harry ! * He uttered your name."

" He did, indeed," replied Blake ; " he did,
indeed! I heard it myself. But he did not
say Harry Blake. Harry, you know, is not an
unusual name."

1 98 Harry Blake.

"It may be; it may be," said Grayson;
" but still we must deliver you up, and if you
are innocent, God grant that you may prove
yourself so ; but unless my eyes deceived me,
I saw you stab that man."

" If that is your belief, God help me ! " said
Blake, solemnly ; " for you must be a witness
against me. If I am charged with murder,
such a fact sworn to would hang me. But you
have not even looked for another murderer.
He may be hid somewhere about here. Search
in the bushes, and you may find him yet. I *11
not stir."

With a strange reliance on the word of the
man whom they would not believe when he
asserted his innocence, they left him and com-
menced to search along the road. And there
stood the culprit motionless, making no at-
tempt at escape, and watching them with an
earnestness only accounted for by the fact that
on their success his life depended. At a short
distance from the spot, and in a part of the
bank on the roadside, where Blake said that he
had not been, there was a footprint. It was
indistinct; but (so far as could be judged)
when compared with Blake's foot they coin^

Harry Blake. 1 99

cided in form and size. A little further on was
another, and also the marks of a struggle in
the road. Here, too, the footprints corre-
sponded with the foot of Blake.

" It 's singularly like mine," said Blake, pla-
cing his foot on the track.

" It had ought to be," said Walton, g^vely ;
" unless your foot has altered its shape within
the last five minutes."

Blake made no reply to this insinuation ; but
stood looking with an expression of deep
trouble at the footprint. In the meantime the
others continued their search up and down the
road and in the bushes. The marks of the
struggle were numerous; but there was no
trace of a murderer, other than Harry Blake.
At last they both came out and stood in the
road.

"Do you find nothing?" inquired Blake,
earnestly.

Grayson shook his head as he said :

" I did n't expect to ; but you wished me to
look, Harry, and I had a hard duty to perform,
so I thought I 'd humor you. I knew that it
would be useless."

** Well, well," said Blake, "every thing goes

2CX) Harry Blake.

sadly against me. You must do your duty. I
am your prisoner."

" But/* said he, seeing them moving to where
the horses were, " what do you intend to do
with that?** And he pointed to the dead
body.

"Catch me a-touching it,** said Walton.
" Caleb chose to pull the knife out of him ;
but I would n*t ha' done it. It *s the coroner's
business, that is. We *11 send him here. Come,
Harry. It is n*t our fault; but you must
go with us, you know.*'

Blake, without further remark, mounted his
horse, and waiting until they were also on theirs,
they rode off in company, taking the direc-
tion to the residence of the nearest magistrate,
where, in due form, Harry Blake was delivered
over to the mercy of the law, and arrange-
ments were made for the removal of the body
of Wickliffe.

CHAPTER II.

About five miles from the tavern mentioned
in the last chapter, stood a spacious brick house,
one story high, with low eaves, extending with-
in reach of the ground, and tall pointed win-

Harry Blake. 20 1

dows perched along its roof. Creeping vines
clambered about the windows and in fissures of
the walls, forming a green mat over them, and
stealing up the trunks of the trees which grew
around the house. A sequestered lane led
to the highway. Altogether it was a rural,
snug old place ; and in it was one of the
snuggest of rooms, fitted up with little nick-
nacks, rare in those days, with snowy window
and bed curtains, and a bed as white and snowy
as the curtains, fit only to be occupied, as it
was, by the most beautiful little fairy of a girl
that one's eyes had ever rested on — and that
was Mary Lincoln.

At about eight o'clock on the morning of
the day succeeding that in which occurred the
incidents narrated in the last chapter, and in
the small room just mentioned, sat a girl with
glossy golden hair, engaged in sewing; though
it must be confessed that her eyes were more
often wandering through the window, and along
that deep vista-like lane, down which her win-
dow looked, than fixed upon her work. It was
the hour at which Harry Blake usually con-
trived, on some pretext or other, to find his
way to the house, to see how she was, and to

202 Harry Blake.

ask a few questions, and to make a few remarks,
the n*ature of which was best known to herself.
On that day, however, he was behind his time.
Still she felt quite sure that he would come.

He had said nothing about it ; but she ex-
pected him as much as if he had, and was en-
deavoring to select one out of half-a-dozen
slightly coquettish ways of receiving him. At
first she thought that she would keep him wait-
ing, a very little time, just enough to make him
more glad to see her; but then, she would be as
much a sufferer as he, for, impatient as he might
be below stairs, she would be equally so above ;
so she abandoned that. Then she thought of
taking her sewing down into the hall, and of
seating herself on one of the old settees which
garnished its sides, and that she would be busily
at work and, of course, would not see him until
he came up and spoke to her ; or, perhaps, she
might accidentally go out just as he was com-
ing in. That, too, she abandoned ; and then
she fancied that she would stroll out and meet
him in the lane ; and it must be confessed that
she inclined more towards this plan than either
of the others, for she had happened to meet
him in this way before, and on these occasions

Harry Blake. 203

Harry always tied his horse to a tree, and
walked with her to the house, and although the
distance was short they always took a g^eat
deal of time in walking it, and he had an oppor-
tunity of saying much, which not unfrequently
he was unable to say at the house ; for her father
was almost as fond of Harry as his daughter was,
and had so much to tell him about his crops, and
about this thing and that, and so much to ask
him, that he sometimes infringed upon time
which Mary thought belonged to her ; and al-
though she endeavored to bear it cheerfully, yet,
at times, she could not help thinking how snug
and comfortable and happy the old gentleman
would be if he were only snoring away in the
easy arm-chair which stood in the chimney-
comer, although it was but eight o'clock in the
morning.

She threw aside her work, and was rising for
the purpose of adopting this last plan, when
she heard the dashing of hoofs in the lane.
" It 's too late," thought she, " but I '11 keep
him waiting," and down she sat out of sight of
the window, so that she could not be seen by the
new-comer, for she did not wish Harry to
know that she had been watching for him.

204 Harry Blake.

The noise of the hoofs increased ; and the
horseman dashed at full gallop to the door.

This was not like Harry. He generally came
fast enough along the road, but he did not
g^lop to the door like a madman. It was not
respectful, and she would tell him so ; still, he
might he in a hurry. It argued a strong desire
to see her, and that was some palliation. There
was evidently a stir below, in front of the
house, and she even heard his name mentioned.
What could be going on there ? She was dying
to know. There was no way of learning, unless
she went to the window, so as to look over the
projecting eaves of the house ; and then she
could be seen.

No, no ; she would not do that. Still the
stir increased, and she caught the sound of
voices in earnest conversation ; but Harry's
voice was not among them. She could hold
out no longer.

She drew a chair near to the window, and
stood on it, but the envious eaves projected so
as to shut out all view of what was going on
below.

It was too bad ! — but see she must. She then
went up to the window. But nothing could

Harry Blake. 205

be seen there, for the speakers were close to the
house, and not the smallest tip-end of the coat
skirt of one of them was visible.

Poor Mary ! She stood on tiptoe, and even
on the chair; but still those unlucky eaves
thrust themselves between her and the object
of her wishes. She went back to her chair and
sat herself down, wondering why they built
such ungainly eaves and cornices, which were
fit only to annoy people, and wondering why
no one came to tell her that Harry was there
and wanted her.

He was uncommonly patient that day — pro-
vokingly so. Five, ten, fifteen minutes elapsed.
There was something like a tear in her eye ; for
she certainly was very ill used.

She threw her work from her, and determined
to go down to him, and to make him pay up for
his backwardness. Opening the door, she went
to the head of the stairs, and assuming as care-
less an air as if there were no Harry Blake in
the world, was going down, when the voice of
her father arrested her.

" Don't come down here, Mary," said he.

There was something in the tone, and in his
manner, and even in this injunction, that caused

2o6 Harry Blake.

her to stop, as if she did not understand
him.

" Go to your room, my child ; we are very
busy here/*

Mary turned to go, for she saw that he
was much agitated ; but as she did so, the name
of Harry escaped her lips.

" He is not here,** said her father.

" Has any thing happened to him ? " asked
she, in a faint voice.

** Yes, yes,** replied the old man. " He *s in
trouble ; but he is well. Go to your room, and
I will be with you in a few moments."

She got to her room, she scarcely knew
how, and threw herself on her bed, drowned in
tears. " He 's well — thank God for that/' sob-
bed she. " I 'm sure I 'm very grateful that he 's
not ill — very grateful ; poor Harry — in trouble,
too, and I, like a good-for-nothing minx as I
was, have been thinking all the morning of noth-
ing but teasing him. He was too good for me.
They all told me so — so patient, so kind, so
good-humored — ^and I — I *11 never forgive myself
— I never will — never! ** She buried her face
in her pillow, and sobbed there, until the door
opiened and she felt her f ather*s arm around her.

Harry Blake. 207

He raised her, folded her tenderly to his
breast, and placed her in a chair.

"Courage, Mary, courage, my little girl,"
said he, in a tone which certainly was not a
model of what he recommended. " Show your-
self to be a woman."

" Yes, yes, father, I will, I will," said she,
and by way of verifying her words she threw
her arms about his neck and wept more bitterly
than before.

" Come, come, my dear little girl," said he,
in a tremulous voice, " sit down and hear what
I have to tell you."

As he spoke, he again placed her in the chair,
and took her hand.

"If you are not able to listen to me now, I
will defer what I have to say to another time,"
said he.

He probably could not have hit upon a better

method of calling her to herself, for she had no

small spice of curiosity in her nature, and just

then remembered that she new nothing definite

of the evil which threatened Harry Blake.

" I can hear it now, father," said she, eagerly,
" Tell me at once what has happened to him,
and where he is."

2o8 Harry Blake.

" He has been arrested, and is in prison/'
said the old man, watching her pale face, as she
sat with her eyes fastened on his, and the tears
still on her cheeks.

" Is that all ? " said she, in a half whisper.
" Tell me all — ^why is he there ? "

" He has been arrested on a very serious
charge, said the old man, very slowly, and by
his manner endeavoring to prepare her for the
communication he had to make.

" Will it affect his life ? " demanded she, at
once catching at the heaviest punishment of
the law. "Will it affect his life? Tell me
that."

" If it is proved, it willy' replied the old man.

" What is it ? what is it ? " said the girl, ris-
ing and grasping his arm. " Father, tell me, I
charge you, and on your word tell me truly."

Her father put his arms around her, and
strained her to his bosom, and looked in her
face without speaking, until she repeated her
question. Then he said in a scarcely audible
voice, " He stands accused of murder."

" Murder! " ejaculated she, faintly, whilst her
hands fell to her side. " Charged with murder !
Why, Harry Blake would not harm a worm."

Harry Blake. 209

She extricated herself from him, made some-
thmg like a step, and had not her father caught
her, would have fallen. She had fainted.

The old man hugged her to his breast again
and again, kissed her lips and cheeks, and called
her by name.

" I knew it would kill her ! I said it would
kill her ! My own dear, darling little girl !
Mary, Mary, speak to your old father ! She *s
dead ! She *s dead ! "

Fortunately, the noise made by Mr. Lincoln
reached some of the females of the house, who
better understood the mode of administering
to her illness. But it was not until he saw her
eyes open, and a faint color once more in her
cheek, that Mr. Lincoln could be induced to
leave the room.

When she recovered, Mary was wilful, for
once in her life.

In spite of all that they could say, she in-
sisted that her father should have the horses
harnessed to the wagon, and should drive her
to the prison where Harry was. They argued
and entreated. They spoke of her ill-health,
of the danger to herself ; but it was idle. She
said that they were all against Harry ; that he

2IO Harry Blake.

was innocent ; that he had declared himself so;
that she believed him, and that go she would,
if she went on her bare feet, that he might see
that she at least was true to him.

At last they yielded, and she took her seat
at her father's side. How unlike the light-
hearted girl of but a few hours before. During
the whole drive she spoke not a word, but ap-
peared so calm, and comparatively so cheerful,
that her father kept equally silent, until they
stopped in front of the building in which the
prisoner was confined.

As she entered his room, and caught sight
of him, she sprang forward, and clasping her
arms about his neck, wept like a child ; and he,
throwing his arms about her and clasping her
to his breast, kissed her cheeks and lips in a
strange passion of joy and grief.

** I am come, Harry, I am come," said she, at
last. " I have not deserted you."

" Dearest Mary, you at least believe me to
be innocent ? *' said he, in a low, earnest voice,
holding her off from him, so that he could look
in her face, but without relaxing his hold on
her waist.

** Yes, yes, I do, I do ! I never doubted it for

Harry Blake. 211

a moment. But, oh! Harry, this is very
dreadful — very dreadful ! What will become
of your poor little Mary, if any harm should
befall you ? But we won't talk of that,"
said she, quickly, for she observed that the
words sent a sort of spasmodic shivering over
him. " We won't talk of it, nor think of it.
I '11 come to see you every day, Harry, and will
spend all the time that I can with you, and
we '11 be quite merry and cheerful here ; and I
can fix up your room, and do many little things
to .make every thing neat and comfortable,
and I '11 tell you the news, and will read and
sing to you — Harry," said she placing her hands
on his shoulders, and looking up in his face,
" I '11 sing the song you asked for yesterday,
when I was vexed and refused. I '11 sing it for
you now, dear Harry — I will — I '11 never refuse
it again. Shall I sing it, Harry? Shall I, dear
Harry?" A painful, sickly smile flickered
across her face ; a single feeble word, the first
of the song, like the faint warbling of a dying
bird, escaped her lips, and she sank senseless
on his breast.

" Take her away ! take her away ! " exclaimed
Blake, franticly, holding her out in his arms

2 1 2 Harry Blake.

towards her father ; " unless you would drive
me mad, take her away ! "

The old man seemed stupefied, but he
mechanically reached out his arms toward her,
but Blake again caught her to his breast, and
kissed her neck, face, hands, and even the long
tresses that fell across his face, and then reach-
ing to her father, said : " There, go, go ; don't
stop another instant."

Mr. Lincoln took her frail form in his arms,
and moved to the door.

" One word, Mr. Lincoln," said Blake, " one
word before we part. Whatever the result of
this accusation may be, even though it end in
my death — I am innocent. The time will come
when I shall be proved so ; and oh ! I beseech,
if I lose my life, that you will protect my
memory with Mary."

The next instant he was alone ; and throw-
ing himself upon a chair, he sat with his face
buried in his hands, until aroused by the en-
trance of the lawyer who had been retained by
his friends, and who now came to consult with
him as to the steps requisite for the manage-
ment of his defence.

HdrryBlake. 213

CHAPTER III.

When Harry Blake was first imprisoned he
bore up stoutly against his fate. But stone
walls and close, pent-up chambers, with their
stifling, stagnant air, and their murky twilight,
are glorious inventions for mildewing the heart,
and breaking down strength and hope ; and
they soon began to tell upon him.

It might have been the loss of his accustomed
exercise in the open air, or the want of the
sight of the blue sky, and of his old home, or a
dread of the fate which might become his, or
(and there were many who believed this) it
might have been the workings of his own evil
conscience, that were making such wild work
with him.

But certain it is, that although, when he was
first confined, he seemed right glad as the day
approached in which he would have the chance
of meeting the charges against him in open
court; yet, as the time drew near, his spirits
drooped, and it was observed that the more
often he conversed with his lawyer, the more
gloomy he became, and that the very mention
of the trial drove the blood from his cheek.

It was observed, too, that after these inter-

214 Harry Blake.

views he walked moodily up and down the
room, with his arms folded, muttering to him-
self, as those do who have heavy burdens on
their hearts, and that his face was pale and
wasted, and his look troubled.

At other times he remained for hours with
his arms crossed on the table and his forehead
resting upon them, in such deep thought that
he did not move when persons came in.

There were many among his friends who
attributed his changed appearance to his con-
finement, and mental anxiety as to the result
of his trial, and still persisted in their belief of
his innocence.

But then there were those who thought other-
wise, and fancied that remorse was doing its
work, and that as the day of retribution ap-
proached, Harry's bold heart, which had hither-
to borne him up, was failing him.

They said : " It was an evil omen to see him
sinking thus, and giving up as if he were already
a doomed man. They did not like it — ^it seemed
a harbinger of a darker fate.*'

Neither hope nor dread can hasten or pro-
tract the steady march of time, and the day of
trial arrived at last.

Harry Blake. 2 1 5

It was in the autumn, when skies were
cloudless, and the fields and trees were clad in
rainbow liveries. It was an idle time, too, in
the country, and from far and near the inhabi-
tants of town and hamlet gathered to see the
sight. A man with his life at stake, and strug-
gling and battling for it with so mighty and
shrewd an adversary as the law.

It was indeed a great sight. It was worth
going miles to witness. Nor was it the less
exciting that they knew the victim, and that
many of them had hitherto admired his noble
and upright character, and loved the man.
But he had shed blood, and must pay the
forfeit.

* The court-house was a large stone building,
standing by itself in the midst of a green lawn,
and at some distance from any other house.
But its solitude was now broken by the hum of
voices, for from every quarter people were pour-
ing in, old and young. Females, and even chil-
dren were there.

Some were speaking on indifferent subjects:
of the difficulties with England, of the state of
the crops, and one old man, broken down and
tottering, of his fields, of what he intended to

2 1 6 Harry Blake.

plant in them on the following year, of young
trees which he- had set out, and of the pleas-
ure he anticipated in sitting under their shade
when they should become great and tall and
overshadow his house. "They are saplings
now, but they will grow fast, and in a few years
will be quite shady '* ; and the old fellow
laughed and shook his head, and rubbed his
hands as he thought of it.

In three weeks, the earth was on his coffin ;
and when those trees were grown, they had
passed into the possession of strangers, and the
hands that planted them were dust.

Some were talking of the murder; and of
Wickliffe ; and of what a pest he had been to
the country round, so quarrelsome ; and what a
pity it was that a fine fellow like Harry Blake
should have to die for having killed a man like
him.

They then spoke of Mary Lincoln ; and one
of them lowered his voice, and said that he
heard that this was killing her. . He had seen
the doctor, who had been at Mr. Lincoln's twice
a day since Harry Blake's imprisonment, and
he had said he was afraid that it would go hard
with her ; she was very ill. Then th^ conver-

Harry Blake, 217

sation was interrupted by the arrival of more
new-comers. In another part of the lawn, an
old man was leaning on a cane, addressing a
crony, who seemed as old and time-worn as
himself.

"Ah! neighbor Williams," said he, "this is
a very sad business — a very sad business. I
knew his father before him, and I have known
Harry since he was a mere baby, — who *d 'a
thought it of him ? — who *d *a thought it ? **

Neighbor Williams shook his head, as much
as to say that nobody would have thought it ;
but seemed to think further expression of his
opinion unnecessary, for he said nothing.

" He was a warm-hearted little boy, and a
very likely man, — a very likely man," contin-
ued the first speaker. " It grieves me to see
him here. It does indeed, neighbor Williams."

Again neighbor Williams shook his head ;
probably to intimate that it grieved him too,
but as before he remained silent.

It is a matter of some uncertainty how long
neighbor Williams might have been thus enter-
tained by his companion, had not their conversa-
tion been interrupted by a general buzz of " Here
he comes ! " The next moment Hariy Blake

2 1 8 Harry Blake.

walked through the crowd, with an officer on
each side of him. He was exceedingly pale,
but his face was full of calm determination, and
his step firm and strong. He looked neither to
the right nor to the left ; and apparently with-
out noticing a soul entered the court-house.

The crowd followed closely after him, and
the next instant were striving and struggling
and fighting to obtain a good position in the
court-room.

Harry Blake seemed quite collected, and the
crowd felt somewhat disappointed that a man
who had committed a murder should look like
other men. Some whispered that he must be a
hardened reprobate, not to show some remorse,
and others said that none but an innocent man
could appear so calm and composed. There
was a great deal of whispering and talking
among them, whilst the jury were getting em-
panelled, but when the counsel for the prose-
cution rose to open his cause, they were so
silent that they seemed not even to breathe.

He dwelt briefly but clearly on the facts
which are already known. He stated that he
should prove, that, on the day of the murder, the
prisoner and Wickliffe had been together at a

Harry Blake. 219

tavern not far from Schenectady ; that a quarrel
had arisen between them and blows had passed ;
that the prisoner had knocked Wickliffe to the
floor; that Wickliffe had fled, and that the
prisoner had been detained from following him
only by force, and had then called all those
present to witness that he would be revenged
on that man for the wrong done him, if it cost
him his life ; that he had finally been released
by those who held him, on promising not to fol-
low Wickliffe, but that he had positively refused
to promise that the quarrel should stop there.

That shortly afterwards he left the house
alone, taking the same road which Wickliffe
had already taken ; that two of the persons
who had been at the tavern with him soon
afterwards left the inn, and took the same
road. That on arriving at a very lonely
part of it, they were alarmed by the cries
of a person in distress, and uttering the
words : " Mercy, mercy, Harry ! *' that these
persons galloped to the spot from which the
sound seemed to proceed, and found a man
kneeling at the side of another just murdered,
and grasping in his hand a knife which was
driven to the haft in the breast of the victim ;

2 20 Harry Blake,

that the murdered man was Hiram Wickliffe,
the person with whom the prisoner had just
quarrelled, and on whom he had sworn to be
avenged, and that the person kneeling at his
side was Harry Blake, the prisoner. There
were footprints near the road, where there
had evidently been a struggle, and these foot-
prints had been examined and compared with
the foot of the prisoner, and were found to
coincide in size.

He stated his case concisely, yet clearly, and
seemed to think the facts sufficiently strong to
require but little exertion of eloquence or in-
genuity on his part. It is needless to linger on
the detail of the testimony confirming the
case, which the lawyer had stated in open-
ing. It was clearly proved, although every
effort was made, by a severe and strict cross-
examination, to embarrass and confuse the
witnesses.

It had been observed, when Walton and
Grayson were called, that the prisoner became
exceedingly pale, and when Grayson swore
that he saw him stab Wickliffe, he compressed
his lips, as if a sudden pain had shot through
him, and clenched his fingers together, and

Harry Blake. 221

bent his head down ; nor did he look up until
Grayson had left the stand.

The old man was terribly agitated, and his
testimony was drawn from him by piecemeal.
He tottered as he left the stand, and as he
passed where Blake sat he muttered in a low
tone:

"I could n't help it, Harry — indeed I could n't,
for it was the truth/'

Blake looked painfully at him, but made no
reply.

He had little or no defence to make. He
could not contradict the facts. An effort was
made by his lawyer to prove his general good
character, his amiable disposition, and the little
probability of his being guilty of a crime like
this.

The lawyer felt a strong inclination to admit
the murder, and to attribute it to a blow
struck in the heat of anger in a renewal of the
quarrel which had been interrupted at the
tavern; but Blake had positively forbidden a
defence of that nature, declaring that it was
false, and that if his counsel attempted to as-
sert what was untrue, he would contradict him
in open court.

222 Harry Blake.

After a long and labored and hopeless speedy
the lawyer sat down.

The reply of the counsel for the prosecution,
which followed, and the charge of the judge,
were both conclusive against him, and without
leaving their seats the jury returned a verdict
of " guilty " of murder in the first degree.

CHAPTER IV.

When Mary Lincoln came to herself, she
would have gone back to Harry Blake's cell ;
but her father was afraid that it would prove too
much for her strength ; and he persuaded her
to defer it until the morrow, promising that if
she were then well he would accompany her.
She made but feeble objection, for she felt
heavy-hearted and almost reckless. Her father
led her down the steps, and placed her in his
wagon, and they drove off. It was a g^y, sun-
shiny day ; and parts of the road which they
had to pass were thickly settled, and there were
people scattered along it and in the fields, The
news of the murder, and of Harry Blake's
arrest, had already got wind, and as they
passed, those who knew them, stopped to look

Harry Blake. 223

at them, and shook their heads, and said, " that
this day would be a sad one to some of old
Geoi^e Lincoln's folks ; that it was a pity so
heavy a blow should fall on one so young as
she was — ^she was a mere child — God bless
her!"

Mary Lincoln sat quietly by her father's
side, not noticing those whom they met, nor
speaking until she reached her home.

Her father lifted her out of the wagon,
and accompanying her up stairs, told her
to be of good heart, and left her to herself.
What a chaos of bewildering thoughts was in
that young girl's brain as she threw herself
upon her bed ! how busy that little head was !
how it teemed with hopes and fears and plans
and schemes to aid Blake ! how confident she
was of his innocence, and that he would be
acquitted, without a shadow upon his name I
Hour after hour passed while she lay there.
Once or twice the door opened, and her father,
or one of the females of the family looked in,
and seeing her so quiet, supposed that she
slept, and closing the door gently, went out.

Sleep came at last, but it was troubled and
broken ; and when morning dawned, she found

2 24 Harry Blake.

a woman watching at her bedside, tod learned
that she was in a high fever. Still she made
light of it, and got up ; and although she felt
sharp pains shooting through her limbs, and
her head swimming, she contrived to dress her-
self and to go down stairs.

In vain the nurse remonstrated. She replied
that she had promised to go to Harry Blake
that day, and that she would keep her promise ;
but when she reached the hall, she tottered so,
that she was compelled to abandon her inten-
tion — for the prison was a long way off, — ^and
to admit that her strength was gone.

Well, if she could not see him, she could
write ; and going to her own room, she locked
the door, and wrote a long letter.

It was a very cheerful one, full of hope and
gay anticipations, and of plans and projects to
be carried into effect when he should be once
more free. And she had so much to show him,
and so much for him to ^o then. She begged
him to keep up his spirits, for he was sure to
be acquitted.

She felt very sanguine of that ; and except-
ing that she could not see him every day, she
felt no uneasiness as to the result, and was

Harry Blake. 225

happy — quite happy. She folded the letter,
sealed and directed it, and with her own hand
gave it to the person who was waiting for it.
She bade him, in a cheerful tone, and with a
bright smile, give it to Harry himself — to say
that she was well — quite well, and in good
spirits ; that she had been unable to go to the
prison that morning, but would come to him
to-morrow. She waved her hand gayly to the
man as he galloped oflf.

Who would have thought that the poor lit-
tle heart which was keeping up so bravely
was breaking, and that in a minute from
that time, she was locked in her own room,
with her face buried in her hands, shedding
the bitterest tears that she had ever wept.
What sad and dreary thoughts came over her
then ! Fears, like shadows which she could not
define or grasp, seemed flitting around her,
hemming her in on every side, until she felt
that there was no hope left ; and that he and
she were parted for ever. Oh ! how forlorn and
helpless she would be, if he were gone ! How
lonely the world would be, to live on, day after
day, week after week, and months and years,
and never see him again, nor hear his voice ;

226 Harry Blake.

and to know that he was in his g^ave ; that as
long as she lived, though hundreds might be
about her, and love her, and do all that they
could to make her happy, still, that he would
never be among them again ! No, no ! it could
not be — it could not be ! She felt that it would
kill her. .

The day passed heavily, and as night was
closing in, an answer came from Blake ; but it
came to one whom it could not comfort, for
Mary Lincoln was delirious.

Several weeks passed, and still she balanced
between life and death ; but one morning the
physician came down stairs from her, with a
smile on his face. He said that his patient was
decidedly better ; she had little fever and was
rational ; only keep her quiet and she would do
well.

It was a morning of great excitement to Mr.
Lincoln, however, for it was that of Blake's
trial. He had concealed this from his daughter,
and had endeavored to encourage her hopes,
but there was something in his subdued man-
ner and attempts at cheerfulness, when he
spoke of herself and Harry, and put aside the
curtain of her bed, and pressed his lips to her

Harry Blake. 227

sunken forehead, and whispered to her to keep
up her spirits and that all would be well, that
made her feel more dispirited than ever.

It was late in the afternoon. George Lin-
coln was sitting in the hall, when he heard a
horseman galloping in hot haste up the lane.
He had not dared to leave his daughter that
day ; but a friend who attended the trial had
promised to send him immediate word of the
verdict, so that, whatever it was, he might
divulge it carefully to his daughter. He started
up, and hurried to the door. As he did so, the
horseman dashed into the yard, and at the top
of his voice bawled out :

" They *ve found Harry Blake guilty of mur-
der."

The old man shook his hand at him, and
made signs for him to be quiet ; and fearful
that his words might have reached his daugh-
ter, without waiting to hear the particulars, hur-
ried up to her room ; and there he saw what
made him through life a sadder man than he
had ever been before; for, stretched on the
floor, directly under the window, to which she
had evidently been attracted by the arrival of
the horseman, his daughter lay.

228 Harry Blake.

A thin stream of blood was trickling from
her mouth, and her eyes were closed. He
caught her in his arms — a faint struggling
breath escaped her lips. He thought, too,
that she murmured the name of Harry Blake ;
but it might have been fancy, for her breath
ceased, and when the loud cries of her father
had brought to his assistance other members
of the household, there was nothing to be done
but to lay on the bed the lifeless body of her
who had been the pride of that old man's heart !

CHAPTER V.

On the night preceding the execution, half
a dozen men were assembled in the bar-room of
the Blue Horse, most of whom had been there
at the time of Blake's quarrel with Wickliffe.
A dull and melancholy group they were. It
might have been the absence of the jolly face
and merry voice of old Garret Quackenboss,
who was gone to Albany to lay in a stock of
substantial to keep up the well-known gastro-
nomic character of the Blue Horse; or it
might have been the great size of the bar-room,
with its murky comers, whose darkness was

Harry Blake. 229

scarcely relieved by the dim light which flick-
ered up from a dying fire, aided only by the
sickly flame of a single candle ; or it might
have been the approaching end of one who
had so lately been among them, that had this
chilling effect on their spirits.

But certain it is, that rarely had the bar-room
of the Blue Horse contained so dull a party.

They had gradually drawn close to the
fire ; and as the night had closed in, and the
wind wailed about the old house, their con-
versation had assumed a sombre character,
and they whispered in each other's ears strange
stories of robberies, murders, midnight assas-
sinations, and even of ghosts. And on this
subject one of them was positive to having
had a private ghost in his own family for years
— ^an aunt in the fourth degree, by the moth-
er's side, who haunted a hen-house on his
father's place, and, what was remarkable, after
her last visitation ten eggs and the old game-
cock, the patriarch of the barnyard, were miss-
ing, showing that ghosts were partial to eggs,
and not particular as to the age of poultry.
Another of them mentioned in a confidential
way, to the whole company, that his grand-

2 30 Harry Blake.

father had walked a mile in a dark wood on a
stormy night in company with a ghost, which
behaved in a very civil and gentlemanlike
manner ; so much so, that the old gentleman,
up to the day of his death, asserted that ghosts
were a very ill-used class of beings, and that
for his part he wished that many people who
pretended to be their betters, were only as good
as they were. From this topic the conversa-
tion gradually wandered ofif to Harry Blake,
and his trial and his approaching death.

" Don't you think they might pardon him ? **
inquired Caleb Grayson, who was one of the
party, and who had been sitting among them,
without taking any part or showing any inter-
est in their conversation, until it touched upon
the subject of Blake's execution ; but then he
seemed keenly alive to it, and with his features
working with intense anxiety, he repeated his
question:

" Don't you think they might ? " I wish
they would. Do tell me, some one. What do
you think ? "

" I heard that Mary Lincoln's father did his
best for him ; but it was of no use," replied one
of those addressed. " But you must not grieve

Harry Blake. 231

about it so. You could n't help being a wit-
ness against him. Even Harry said so him-
self."

The old man's face brightened, and some-
thing like a smile passed over it, as he said :
" Did Harry say so ? Well, I 'm glad of that ;
for it makes me very sad when I think that it
was I and Walton who put him where he is ;
indeed it does."

" It Was no fault of yours," said the man,
" and you must n't let it trouble you. I 'm sure
I should have done as you did."

." Ah ! here comes some one."

The last words were called forth by the
sound of a horse clattering up to the house,
and the loud voice of a man bawling out
for some one to take his horse ; and in a
few minutes a tall man, unknown to them
all, entered the room, with a short whip in
his hand. There was little in his features, or
in the appearance of his person, to encourage
familiarity; for his complexion was swarthy
and sallow, and his expression any thing but
prepossessing, and his dress was coarse and
soiled, as if from hard travel.

He paused a moment, and looked about him ;

232 Harry Blake.

and then striding across the room, drew a chair
directly in front of the fire, in the midst of the
astonished group, and held his feet to the blaze.

" A threatening night, friends," said he at
length, addressing them.

There was something in his stem, sinister
eye and haggard, repulsive face which gave a
momentary check to the conversation. No
one answered him, and he went on.

" Go on, don't let me stop talk. On with
you. I want to break in on no man's hu-
mor. I Ve an odd humor of my own ; for
I *ve heard that there 's a man to be hanged
to-morrow, and I *ve come fifty miles to see it.
I was at the trial, and now I Ve come to see if
he '11 wear the same bold face when he dies that
he did then."

" So you were at the trial ? " said Caleb
Grayson, who was leaning with his elbow on
the table, and his cheek resting on the palm of
his hand, and looking gloomily into the fire.

" Ay, I was, my man," said the stranger,
bluntly, " and I saw you there. You were
the witness who swore that you saw him
stab Wickliflfe. I was at your elbow at the
time. Your testimony did for him."

Harry Blake. 233

The old man half started from his seat, and
turned exceedingly pale, at the same time
pressing his hand across his eyes. At last he
said, in a low, agitated voice :

" What could a man do ? I was forced to go,
and my answer was on oath. I did see him
stab him — I 'm sure I did."

" Then, of course, it was all right,*' replied
the other. " For my part, I *m glad he *s to
hang. I shall be glad when he *s out of the
way. Had I been on the jury, and known only
what you stated, I would have brought in the
same verdict.**

The old man looked at him sharply, as he
asked : " What do you mean ? What else do
you know ? *'

" Know ! '* repeated the stranger, looking
carelessly up, and drumming with his whip
upon his boot. " Nothing. What could I
know ? You saw him murder the man,
did n't you ? You swore to that. I should
think there was little more to be discovered.**

" True, true,** replied the other. " Yet this
is a strange story of Harry*s, and even now he
persists in it, and in asserting his innocence.
Poor fellow ! I always loved that boy as my

234 Harry Blake.

own child — I — I who have brought hhn to this
end/'

" Poor little Mary Lincoln too ! it has killed
her. Thank God ! she *s in her grave. It 's
better for her.'*

" Of course, he '11 insist to the last that he is
not guilty," said the stranger. " There 's al-
ways two ways of dying. Some confess, and
throw themselves on the mercy of the law.
Others keep their mouths tight, and accuse it
of injustice to the last. The first hope for
pardon through its clemency. The last hope
it, through the fear which every man has of
shedding innocent blood. He 's one of the
last. He bears it boldly, I 'm told."

" Harry Blake is no coward," replied Gray-
son. " He says he is ready to die, but that he
is innocent. The love of life must be strong
in him, for until now I never thought that he
would lie, even to save his life. But he is not
innocent — no — no — he is not ; for I saw him
strike the blow. The love of life is very strong.
It must be, or Harry Blake would not lie."

A slight, sneering smile flitted across the face
of the stranger, as he turned from the speaker
and looked among the dull embers of the

Harry Blake. 235

fire, in sUence. It was a dim, dreary room,
and its distant comers were lost in darkness ;
and the form of the stranger, as he sat between
the andirons, threw a gigantic, spectral shadow
on the wall that seemed to have something
ominous about it, and, taken in connection with
the gloomy nature of the conversation, and the
cold indifference of the stranger, and his wild,
forbidding air, seemed to have thrown a chill
on all about him. For as he sat there, buried
in deep thought, with his eyebrows knit, and
his lips working as with suppressed emotion,
those who had hitherto hugged the fire began
slowly to widen the distance between them-
selves and their ill-omened visitor ; to scan his
person, as if there were more in it than met the
eye, and to watch his tall shadow on the wall,
as if there were something about it more than
appertained to shadows in general. Still they
spoke not, until the object of their solicitude,
as if concluding a long mental discussion, drew
a heavy breath, and rising, said : " Well, let
him die. It 's as well. Others have died in
the same way."

Turning to a sort of under-barkeeper, who
officiated in the absence of Garret, he said :

236 Harry Blctke.

" See to my horse, will you ? And now show
me to my room ; and call me at sunrise ; I
shall not breakfast here."

Those collected about the fire watched him
as he followed the attendant out of the room
and shut the door after them.

" What do you think of that man, Mr. Tomp-
kins ? '' said one of them to a small man in an
ample vest and contracted smallclothes.

" Come, come, none of that,'' said the small
man, with an air of suspicious stubbornness.
" Don't be trying to make me commit myself
by asking questions/' As he spoke he fixed
his eyes obstinately on his own finger-nails, not
that they were particularly clean or ornamental.

" Can't you speak your mind, man ? " said
the other, pettishly.

Still the small man ogled his nails.

" Well, then," said his companion, " I 'U tell
you what I think. I think," said he, sinking
his voice, and placing the back of his hand to
the comer of his mouth, by way of indicating
the extreme of confidence, " I think he won't
be dr owned y

" Ah ! " said the small man, " if that 's all, I
think so myself."

Harry Blake. 237

And having settled this matter to their mu-
tual satisfaction they rose to go, a motion in
which they were followed by all except Caleb
Grayson, who, long after they were gone, and
the room was silent and deserted, sat there,
with a heavy heart, at the part which the law
had forced upon him, and which had led to the
execution which was to take place on the mor-
row. At last he started up, and finding his
way to the stable, saddled his horse and
rode off.

It was a dark night. Black clouds were
drifting across the sky, obscuring it, and to-
gether with the tall trees and forests, which in
places overhung the road, rendered it pitchy
dark.

In defiance of the threatening look of the
sky and the obscurity of the road, the old man
kept steadily on for several hours, neither
pausing to rest his beast nor to refresh himself
until it was broad daylight, when he arrived at
a large wooden building. Stopping for the
first time, he fastened his horse to the gate,
and crossing a small yard, ascended a flight of
steps and entered the hall.

A guard was pacing up and down there ; and

238 Harry Blake.

near him on a wooden bench sat an old man
reading a worn-out Bible.

" Can I see Blake ? ** demanded Grayson of
the old man.

" Yes, I suppose you can," replied he, put-
ting aside his book ; " I Ve orders to admit his
friends — a sad business — a sad business — ^and
he the flower of the country round."

"Ah, neighbor Grayson, who would have
thought it ? "

Caleb Grayson made no reply to the remarks
in which the old man indulged, until he opened
the door of the room or cell, and pointed to
Blake, seated at a small* wooden table within.

Blake rose as the old man entered, and ex-
tended his hand to him.

" This is kind, Caleb," said he ; "I was afraid
that you alone of all my friends would not call
to see me, for I know what you think of me."

" Ah ! that 's the reason, Harry, that I could
not come," replied the other, sadly. " I knew
that I had brought you to this, and I could not
bear to come and look at my work."

" Well, well, it *s all past, and God knows
I Ve little to live for now — poor Mary — ^she 's
gone — no matter, no matter ; the worst is over

Harry Blake. 239

— ^and you must n't lay it to heart, Caleb — ^you
acted for the best, and we '11 not talk of it."

" But we must talk of it, we must ! " exclaimed
the old man.

" In spite of all that I felt, it 's what I came
for. If I would die easy I must know the
truth ; and I have come here, Harry, to beg, to
conjure you to tell it."

"You have heard it already," said Blake, sadly.

" No, no, Harry, I have not ; I know I have
not," said he, " but you will tdl it to me now."

Harry Blake turned his head away and was
silent.

" Harry, my dear boy," said the old man,
crouching at his feet, and pressing his forehead
against his knees, " my own dear boy, do con-
fess to me. It will render more happy a life
that is nearly spent, to have my statement con-
firmed by your own lips. Don't be afraid of
me, Harry ; for here, I swear, in the presence
of the God who made us both, that I will not
reveal what you tell me. Indeed, I will not.
Come, Harry, come."

" Caleb," said Blake, passing his hand kindly
over the old man's head, " from my soul I pity
you ; but I cannot lie."

240 Harry Blake.

** You pity fm /** said the old man, rising.
" Am I the one to be pitied ? No, no, not
quite so bad as that — not quite so bad as that.
I '11 not believe it, say what you will. With
my own eyes, Harry, I saw you commit that
murder — indeed I did ! "

Blake shook his head. "You think so— I
know you think so ; I '11 do you that justice.
But your eyes deceived you. It 's useless to
dwell on this now. You have done what the
law made your duty, in telling what you bet
lieved to be the truth. I should have had to
do the same myself, and I freely forgive you."

" No, no, Harry," said Grayson, with child-
ish querulousness, " this will not do. Why will
you not tell the truth ? You cannot be saved
now. All hope is passed. Come, there 's a
good fellow. You met — you quarrelled — words
grew high — he attacked you — and, finally, you
— ^you — stabbed him. Ha ! ha ! that was the
way of it ; was n't it ? A man will do many
things when his blood *s up which he would n't
at another time. Your hot blood could n't
bear all that he said. It was natural, and, I
think, pardonable — indeed I do."

He placed his hands on Blake's shoulders,

Harry Blake. 241

and, looked imploringly in his face, whilst his
voice changed from one of assumed vivacity to
one of the deepest sadness. " Harry, was n't
it so ? Tell me, my own dear boy, was n't it
so ? You know you quarrelled with him at the
tavern."

" I did, indeed," said Harry, gloomily ;
" God forgive me for it."

"And you swore that you would have re-
venge if it cost you your life ? "

" It was an impious speech," replied Blake,
in a grave tone, " and fearfully has it been
visited upon me."

"You left the tavern," continued Grayson,
eagerly, " took the same road which he had
taken, came up with him "

" And found him dead," said Blake.

" I '11 not believe it ! It 's not true ! " ex-
claimed the old man, striding up and down the
room, with his hands clasped together. " It 's
not true. Oh ! Harry, it *s horrible to go to
the grave persisting in a lie."

" Hark ! " said Blake, as the voices of per-
sons approaching the door were heard. " It *s
the hour, and they are coming for me ! Good-
by."

242 Harry Blake.

One word, Harry ! " exclaimed Grayson ;
" are you guilty ? "

" No ! " replied Blake, with an earnest em-
phasis.

The next moment the door was opened, and
Blake was summoned to go forth.

CHAPTER VI.

By daybreak all the country round was astir.
Men singly and in squads of three and four ;
women and children old and young ; the hale,
the sick, the decrepit, were all in motion, and
drifting like a sluggish current towards the
place of execution.

It was in a large field, in a retired, out-of-the-
way spot, hemmed in by trees ; a spot whose
silence and solitude were rarely disturbed;
yet now it hummed with life.

Fences, rocks, and every little eminence of
ground were packed with people. The trees
were crowded with human beings, who hung
like bees from their branches, and near the
foot of the gallows the earth was black with
them, crammed and wedged together — not an
inch to spare. There was a great sea of faces.

Harry Blake. 243

turned up at one time to the tall framework
above them ; at another, towards where the
far-distant road wound among the hills. Oc-
casionally there was a scuffle, and the mass
rocked to and fro, like a forest waving before
the wind, and then came curses and execra-
tions from the writhing multitude; but by
degfrees the tumult subsided, and they were
quiet again. Then they looked at the sun,
and wondered how soon Harry would come —
they were weary of waiting. Some spoke
of him as of an old friend. He was a fine
fellow ; they had known him from childhood.
" Has he confessed yet ? " inquired one.

" No, no, not he," was the reply. " He *11
not give up till the last ; it *s thought he *11 do
so then. I heard some one say that old Caleb
Grayson was all last night in his cell, trying to
pump it out of him ; but he was game. Caleb
could get nothing from him.''

" Come ! I like that," said the other, rub-
bing his hands together. "That *s so like
Harry. I '11 bet ten to one he '11 not show
the white feather at last."

'' Ha ! who 's that ? "

As he spoke he pointed to a tall, swarthy

244 Harry Blake.

man, who was forcing his way through the
crowd, jostling them hither and thither, heed-
ing not the gamblings and cursings which
followed him as he dragged himself on. Once
or twice, as some fellow more sturdy than the
rest withstood him, he turned and glanced at
him with a look of such savage and bitter
anger that the man was glad to let him pass.
Thus he went on, until he reached the very
foot of the gallows ; and there he fixed him-
self, taking notice of no one, and regardless
that even in that dense crowd a small circle
was formed around him, as if there were con-
tamination in his touch. Above him, from
the cross-piece of the gallows, the cord swung
to and fro in the wind, and at times, as he
raised his eyes to it, a smile crossed his face,
giving to it a strangely wild expression that
was long remembered by those who saw him
there.

"There '11 soon be something to tighten
that string,** said he to a tall, burly man who
stood nearest to him with his good-natured eye
running from the speaker to the cord, as if it
struck him that the weight most fitting for
that purpose were nearer than he imagined.

Harry Blake. 245

"Yes, there will be, more *s the pity," said
the man in reply to the remark, after pausing for
some time, as if in doubt whether it merited
one. " I for one am sorry for it."

" Would you have the murderer escape ? "
demanded the stranger.

" Let him hang when he *s found, say I,"
replied the man. " Harry Blake denies that he
did it, and I believe him."

Again that strange smile passed across the
stranger's face, as he said: "Twelve sworn
men, all of whom knew and liked Blake, heard
the testimony and said he did it. What more
would you want ? "

" I want Harry Blake's own confession, and
we would have it if he were guilty. That 's
what I want. I wish to heaven I had found
him with the murdered man, I would have
known the truth. I went to the spot the next
day, but it was too late."

" What do you mean ? " inquired the stranger
with some interest.

The man moved a little aside and showed
the head of a large dog, who was seated near
him, with his nose thrust forward, almost
touching the stranger. " I went with that dog

246 Harry Blake.

to the spot, and I put his nose to the track.
He went round and round, and over the ground
for more than a quarter of a mile. In the woods
he found an old hat, which he tore to rags. I be-
lieve it belonged to the true murderer (he was
smelling that hat this very morning, for I took
it with me), but he lost the scent. Then I
carried him to Harry Blake, but he would not
touch him."

" A strange dog."

" Damme, sir ! " said the man, earnestly. " Do
you know that he 's been snuffing about you
for the last ten minutes. Curse me if I have n't
my suspicions of you."

The stranger's eyes fairly glowed as he re-
turned his look, and then he burst into a loud
laugh and turned to those around :

" Hear him ! He says I murdered Wickliffe,
because his dog smells at my knee. Ha ! ha !
ha I Why don't you arrest me?" demanded
he, turning to the man.

The man, evidently abashed at this abrupt
question, shook his head, muttered something
between his teeth, and remained silent, and the
stranger, after eying him for several moments,
seeing that he was not disposed for further con-

Harry Blake. 247

versation, and apparently not caring to be the
object of attention to all eyes, as he then was,
moved off and stationed himself on the oppo-
site side of the gallows.

. The time lagged heavily. The crowd grew
restless and uneasy, and here and there, one or
two, irritated beyond their patience, commenced
a quarrel which came to blows. This created a
temporary excitement, but it was soon over,
and by degrees they grew wearied again. They
stamped their feet on the ground to keep them
warm. The farmers talked of their harvest
and of their stock. Some of them gaped and
yawned, and fell sound asleep as they stood
there. Young girls flirted with and ogled their
sweethearts, and there was many a pretty face
in that crowd, whose owner had been induced
to come only for the sake of him who was to
escort her there, and who was thinking more
of the young fellow who stood at her side, in
his best apparel, than of Harry Blake.

These and the troops of liberated schoolboys,
to whom a holiday was a great thing, even
though bought by the life of a fellow-being,
were the only persons unwearied.

But the time came at last, and a loud cry

248 Harry Blake.

arose in the distance, and swept along through
that multitude, becoming louder and louder,
until it reached the foot of the gallows ; and
the whole mass swayed backward and forward,
and rushed and crowded together, as in the
distance the prisoner was seen approaching.
With a slow, steady pace the soldiers who
guarded him came on, forcing open the throng,
and keeping an open space around the cart
which conveyed him. Harry Blake was ex-
ceedingly pale, but his manner was composed,
and his eye calm and bright as in his best days,
and many a lip as he passed muttered a '' God
bless him."

He spoke to no one ; although his face once
or twice faintly lighted up with a look of recog-
nition as he saw a familiar face.

When he reached the foot of the scaffold,
his eye for a moment rested on Caleb Grayson,
looking imploringly towards him. The old
man caught his glance, and exclaimed as he
ascended the steps :

** Now, Harry, now confess ; do, Harry — for
God's sake ! "

Blake shook his head.

** No, Caleb, for I am innocent,"

Harry Blake. 249

These were his last words ; for in a few min-
utes the drop fell, and poor Blake's earthly
career was ended.

" Ha ! ha ! " exclaimed the same swarthy
man, who had stood during the whole time at
the foot of the gallows, and whom Grayson
recognized as the person whom he had met at
the inn the night previous. '' That business is
over. That *s law I "

And, without noticing the startled looks of
those about him, with the same recklessness
which he had displayed in coming, he forced
his way through the crowd and disappeared.

CHAPTER VII.

About three months after the jsxecution of
Blake, the judge who presided at the trial re-
ceived a note from a prisoner under sentence
of death, requesting to see him without delay,
as his sentence was to be carried into effect on
the day following. On his way thither the
judge overtook an old man, walking slowly
along the road, whom he recognized to be Caleb
Grayson.

The old man had received a note similar to

2 50 Harry Blake.

his own ; and was going to the same place,
though he was equally at a loss to know the
meaning of the summons. They both entered
the cell together.

The prisoner was seated at a wooden table,
with a small lamp in front of him, his forehead
leaning on his hand, which shaded his eyes
from the light. He was a tall, gaunt man, with
dark, sunken eyes, and unshorn beard and hol-
low cheeks.

He looked like one worn down by suffering
and disease ; yet one whom neither disease nor
suffering could conquer, and to whom remorse
was unknown. He did not move when his
visitors entered, otherwise than to raise his
head. As he did so, Grayson recognized at a
glance the stranger whom he had seen at the
tavern the night before Blake's execution, and
at the gallows.

"Well, Judge," said he, as soon as he saw
who they were, " I sent for you, to see if you
can't get me out of this scrape. Must I hang
to-morrow ? "

The judge shook his head. " It 's idle to
hope," said he ; " nothing can prevent your
execution,"

Harry Blake. 251

'' An application might be made to the higher
authorities," said the prisoner. " Pardons have
come, you know, even on the scaffold."

" None will come in your case," replied the
magistrate.

" It is needless for jne to dwell on your of-
fence now, but it was one that had no palliation,
and you may rest assured that whatever may
have occurred in other cases, no pardon will
come in yours. In fact, I understand that an
application has b^en made for one by your
counsel, and has been refused."

The features of the prisoner underwent no
change, nor did the expression of his face
alter in the least. But after a moment's pause
he said: "Is this true, Judge — upon your
honor?"

** It is," replied the judge.

" Then I know the worst," replied the crimi-
nal, coldly, " and will now tell what I have to
communicate, which I would not have done
while there was a hope of escape."

" You," said he, turning to the judge, " pre-
sided at the trial of young Harry Blake, who
was accused of murder, and sentenced to death."

« I did."

\

252 Harry Blake.

"And you," said he, turning to Grayson,
" were one of the witnesses against him. You
swore that you saw him stab Wickliffe. On
your testimony, principally, he was hung."

" I was/' replied the old man. " I saw him
with my own eyes."

The prisoner uttered a low, sneering laugh
as he said, turning to the judge :

" You, sir, sentenced an innocent man."

" And you," said he, turning to the other,
" swore to a falsehood. Harry Blake did not
kill Wicklifife. He was as innocent of the sin
of murder as you were — ^more innocent than
you are now."

The old man staggered as if he had been
struck, and leaned against the table to support
himself, whilst the condemned felon stood op-
posite him, looking at him with a cold, indiffer-
ent air.

" Yes, old man," said he, sternly, " you have
blood and perjury on your soul, for I — I — "said
he, stepping forward, so that the light of the
lamp fell strongly upon his savage features — " I
murdered Wickliffe ! I did it ! Thank God 1
I did it ; for I had a long score to settle with
him. But Blake had no hand in it. I met

Harry Blake. 253

Wickliffe on that afternoon alone, with none
to interfere between us. I told him of the in-
juries which he had done to me, and I told him
that the time was come for redress. He en-
deavored to escape; but I followed him up.
I grappled with him, and stabbed him. As
I did so I heard the clatter of a horse's
hoofs, and I leaped into a clump of bushes
which grew at the roadside. At that mo-
ment Blake came up, and found Wickliffe
lying dead in the road. You know the rest.
The tale he told was as true as the Gospel.
He was only attempting to draw the knife from
the* man's breast when you came up and
charged him with the murder ! "

" Good God ! can this be possible ? " ejacu-
lated the old man. It cannot be, villian ! you
are a liar ! "

" Pshaw ! " muttered the man. " What could
I gain by a lie? To-morrow I die."

" I don't believe it ! I don't believe it ! "
exclamed Grayson, pacing the cell, and wring-
ing his hands. "God in mercy grant that it
may be false ! that this dreadful sin may not be
upon me 1 "

The prisoner sat down, and looked at the

254 Harry Blake.

judge and the witness with a calmness which
had something almost fiendish in it, when con-
trasted with the extreme agitation of the one,
and the mental agony of the other.

At last the old man stopped in front of him,
and with a calmness so suddenly assumed in
the midst of his paroxysm of remorse, that it
even overawed the criminal, said :

" You are one whose life has been a tissue of
falsehood and crime. You must prove what
you have said, or I '11 not believe it."

** Be it so," replied the prisoner. " I saw
the whole transaction, and heard all your tes-
timony at the trial, for I was there too. I *11
now tell you what occurred at the spot of
the murder, which you did not mention, but
which I saw. When you rode up, the other
man jumped off his horse and seized Blake by
the collar ; your hat fell off on the pommel of
your saddle, but you caught it before it reached
the ground. You then sprang off your horse,
and whilst Walton held Blake you examined
the body. You attempted to pull the knife
from his breast, but it was covered with blood,-
and slipped from your fingers. You rubbed
your hand on the ground, and going to a bush

Harry Blake. 255

on the roadside broke off some leaves and
wiped your hands upon them, and afterwards
the handle of the knife. You then drew it out
and washed it in a small puddle of water at the
foot of a sumach bush. As you did so, you
looked round at Blake, who was standing with
his arms folded, and who said : ' Don't be un-
easy about me, Caleb, I did n't kill Wickliffe,
and don't intend to escape.' At one time you
were within six feet of where I was. It 's
lucky you did not find me, for I was ready at
that moment to send you to keep company with
Wickliffe ; but I saw all, even when you stum-
bled and dropped your gloves as you mounted
your horse."

" God have mercy on me ! " ejaculated Gray-
son. " This is all true ! But one word more. I
heard Wickliffe, as we rode up, shriek out
' Mercy, mercy, Harry ! ' "

" He was begging for his life — my first name
is Harry."

The old man clasped his hands across his
face, and fell senseless on the floor.

It is needless to go into the details of the
prisoner's confession, which was so full and
clear that it left no doubt on the mind of the

2 56 Harry Blake.

judge that the prisoner was gfuilty of Wickliffe's
murder, and that Harry Blake was another of
those who had gone to swell the list of victims
to Circumstantial Evidence.

JOHN MUNRO.

CHAPTER I.

UPON a promontory, jutting out into a
noble bay, stood, in times gone by,
a grand old house, vast and imposing from
its size, and venerable from its age.

It had been built two hundred years, and
was full of odd nooks and corners, long corri-
dors, dark, dim chambers, and halls wide and
regal in their size.

Large trees flung their branches over it.
They had been saplings when its comer-stone
was laid ; but they were giants now, and
stretched out their branches as if to shelter it ;
for time and storm were writing their story on
its walls. Moss was growing on the roof, and
swinging doors and unglazed windows showed
that neglect had aided in the work of ruin.

In its best days it had teemed with guests,
and echoed to the sounds of gayety ; for it had

257

258 yohn Munro.

belonged to a free-hearted race, noted for the
open-handed hospitality of its men, and the
peerless beauty of its women. But the wealth
which had supported it had taken wings and
fled, and the heavy heart and anxious brow
had usurped the place of gayety and song.

Those who had loved the place for the halo
which old memories flung round it, had sunk
into the grave, or were themselves forgotten in
their dark hour ; — ^and the house had passed
into the hands of strangers.

Neglect followed the change of owners. It
was too costly to be kept up. Its shrubbery
ran wild. Vines and creeping plants clambered
over its walls, and its walks were gfrass-grown.
Strange stories, too, got afloat about it. It was
said that steps went echoing through the house
at night. Sometimes strong and heavy, like
the tread of an armed man — at others, so light
that fairy feet seemed to be gliding over the
old floors, as if the spirits of those who once
graced the dim chambers still lingered there.

Its evil name completed what neglect had
done. It was deserted by its last tenant, an
aged negro who had lived there rent free, and it
was considered unlucky to cross the threshold.

^ohn Munro. 259

It had remained thus for several years, until
one day, a person wandering near it observed
smoke ascending from a chimney.

On the following day, a grave, stem man
stopped at the village near by, to purchase a
few articles ; and directed them to be sent to
Colonel Grafton, at " The House/*

For a time speculation was busy regarding
the stranger. Grafton was known to be the
family name of the old owners of the place.
But why he had come back, and from whence,
were matters of surmise. It was evident that
his means were limited, for his purchases were
few, and of little price, and it was shrewdly
suggested that he would not have taken up
his quarters in such a dwelling if he could have
gone anywhere else.

Little could be learned about him, except
that he was a man well stricken in years, ap-
parently feeble in health, and was accompanied
by his daughter, who was both young and
beautiful, and that her name was Edith. They
were attended by the man who had appeared
at the village. He was about sixty years of
age, with grave, stem features, iron-gray hair,
a steady, uncompromising eye, and a frame
broad, massive, and apparently cast in iron.

26o yohn Munro.

It was difficult to define the relationship
which existed between Colonel Grafton and
this man ; for, although he usually treated the
Colonel with the deference due to a superior,
yet at times he assumed a tone and authority
altogether incompatible with the idea of menial
service.

There never was any thing approaching to
disrespect in his manners ; but in his whole de-
portment there was an air of grave responsibil-
ity, as if he felt that the chaise, both of his
master and his daughter, devolved upon him-
self.

His erect military carriage, and the undress
uniform which he sometimes wore, showed
that he had been in the army, and a scar
across one eyebrow seemed to indicate that
in that service he had not escaped unscathed.

Their coming was a nine days' wonder, and
then curiosity respecting them gradually died
out, and they came to be regarded by their
neighbors as part of themselves.

It had become known, from remarks which
escaped their attendant, that he and Colonel
Grafton had served in the army together ; that
the latter had been his superior officer, and

John Munro. 261

that when, with broken health and shattered
fortunes, he had sought the home of his fore-
fathers, the dragoon, for such he was, had fol-
lowed him, sometimes acting as an attendant,
more frequently as adviser, but never at any
time in their intercourse forgetting the distinc-
tion of rank which had existed between them
in former days.

Shortly after their arrival, a female domestic
was added to their family, and immediately
buried herself in the recesses of the kitchen,
from which she seldom emerged.

The old man and his daughter rarely left the
grounds about the house ; and whatever they
required was purchased by their attendant.

Colonel Grafton was a reserved and silent
man to all except his old comrade in arms;
but no sooner had the bustle and excitement
of Settling themselves in their new abode worn
off, than a spirit of morbid restlessness came
over him. He wandered through the house
and grounds, at times pacing the stone-paved
courtyard for hours, muttering to himself, and
won from his gloomy musings only when the
bright face of his daughter looked up in his, or
her silvery tones broke in upon his reveries.

262 yohn Munro.

Sometimes he would rise at midnight, and,
with a dim light, would wander through the
rooms, stopping to gaze at the faded portraits
on the walls, examining the dusty and worm-
eaten furniture, or pausing to listen to the wind
sighing through the passages.

One night, when thus engaged, he was star-
tled by a heavy step behind him. He had
heard of the iron tread which sometimes
tramped through the house at night, and with
a kind of anxious expectation he turned to
meet his half-dreaded visitant.

With a feeling of disappointment, his eye
rested on the ponderous figure of the dragoon.

" Master Richard, the night is the time
which God has made for man's repose. Why
will you contravene his laws, and wander here
when you should be sleeping?"

" John," replied the other, in a half-jesting
half-earnest tone, " I 'm told that in this house
the dead walk, and that in the hour of midnight
their ghosts still people these chambers."

Well, let them," replied the dragoon.

We Ve nothing to do with them. We 're
flesh and blood, and have nothing in common
with them. There 's room enough in this house

yohn Munro. 263

for them and us too. They do not trouble you,
Master Richard, I hope ? "

" The ghosts which haunt me are memories
of the past — of blighted hopes and ruined pros-
pects. These dog my footsteps wherever I go.
In my bedchamber, in my walks, at my table,
in my sleep and dreams — ^they are ever with
me, giving me no rest nor peace. John, I
sometimes fear they will drive me mad ! '*

The dragoon made no reply, but taking the
the light from his master's hand, said in the same
tone in which he would have addressed an ail-
ing child : " The night air is chilly, and lingering
here will do you harm. These rooms are very
damp and cold."

" Aye,*' replied the other, " they are damp
and cold now, but in times past they were not
so. Think of what they have been — think of
the founders of this race, and of what they
were — ^and of me, their descendant, and what
/am."

" Do not fret about these things," replied the
drs^oon. " It *s a waSte of time. Come, Mas-
ter Richard, it 's gloomy here, and it 's wrong to
Unger. The cold will strike to your very heart."

The other did not heed him.

264 John Munro.

''I tell you, John, that I can hardly bear
this/' said he, his frame trembling as he spoke,
and the words coming from his lips with tremu-
lous energy. " At no time, and in no place, is
my mind so busy as here. Here, every devil
in my brain is at work, dragging the past from
the dim recesses of memory ; I cannot forget
it, if I would. It leaps back into the present.
These mouldering walls, this furniture decaying
with mildew and rot, the sagging ceilings, the
gaping windows, and the dust-begrimed floors,
— all replete with desolation and decay, disap-
pear. About me, is this house in all its glory.
The halls are crowded ; the rooms are flashing
with light, with youth and beauty ; and instead
of the sighing of the wind I hear the music of
happy voices, and the gay laugh and the light
step of those who are without care. When I
lie down to sleep— sleep brings dreams like
these ; and I wake more lonely than ever. And
when I look upon my child, pure and innocent
as when she first came from the hand of God,
fitted to shine with the brightest that ever lived
here, I demand for what fault of mine or hers
are we, the last descendants of our race, cast
upon the world, impoverished and wretched ! "

yohn Munro. 265

The dragoon made no reply, but with a quiet
authority, warranted by years of friendship,
drew his master's arm in his and led him from
the room.

He did not leave him until he had conducted
him to his own chamber. As he turned to go
he said :

" Colonel Richard, in the hour of battle you
trusted in God. Do so now.**

He left the room and closed the doorj but
for more than an hour he kept watch there, nor
did he leave the spot until the unbroken quiet
told him that the troubled occupant within was
at rest.

More than a year had passed since they had
come there ; and Colonel Grafton by degrees
became reconciled to his fate. He still kept
aloof from his neighbors ; but where there is a
damsel, young and beautiful as Edith was,
young men will find it out, and will admire,
and sometimes fall in love.

But her heart as yet was with her father, and
although she was no stranger to the covert
glances which were cast at her as she passed
through the village on her way to church ; and
although she caught many a furtive look dur«

266 yohn Munro.

ing the prosy sermon, still she gave encourage-
ment to none. When the service was over, she
tucked her little hand in her father's arm, and
tripped gayly at his side, without paying heed
to the havoc which her trim figure and dark
dreamy eyes were making in the hearts about
her.

John Munro always accompanied them, fol-
lowing in the rear, erect and soldier-like, keep-
ing a watchful eye on his convoy, and upon the
prowlers who hung about it, fingering, as he
went, the head of a stout cudgel in a manner
that was by no means encouraging to Edith's
many admirers.

It was strange, he often thought, that one
who could head a column in battle, as Colonel
Grafton had, could be such a child in the ways
of the world.

One afternoon a stranger came to the house
and asked for a night's lodging. He was young
and gayly dressed, but John Munro did not
like his looks, and told him that the town was
not far off, that the road to it was plain, and
that he could find good quarters there, and be
beholden to no man.

The stranger thanked him, but still lingered,

yohn Munro. 267

and asked a number of questions about the
house and the family. He got but curt answers
from the dragoon, who kept the door half
closed, and permitted nothing to be seen be-
yond it but his own grim visage.

The stranger was not to be beaten off. He
continued to loiter, the dragoon still mounting
guard, until, as ill luck would have it, the old
man came up the path with his daughter on
his arm.

With something like a curse, the soldier
strode out and pulled the door shut after him ;
and as he saw the stranger advancing towards
his master, he stepped before him and fore-
stalled his words.

" This gentleman," said he " is seeking quar-
ters for the night. I Ve told him that there is
an inn in the town near by. I '11 conduct him
to it," added he, by way of making matters
more easy.

Colonel Grafton looked at the young man
and bowed. A slight tinge of color came across
his cheek as he said :

" You seem to be a stranger here."^

" I am, and yet I am not. I was seeking
quarters it is true ; but I hoped to find them at

268 yohn Munro.

the house of Colonel Graftoiiy the former com-
panion-in-arms of my father, Thomas Rivers."

'' Aye, and you shall find them/' said the old
man, the hospitable spirit of his race breaking
out. '^ There 's not much to offer, but such as
it is you shall have it."

And thus the stranger formed the acquaint-
ance of Richard Grafton, and became his guest.

Whether his coming was as accidental as he
represented it to be, or whether he had heard
of the daughter of his host, and came with de-
signs upon her heart, or whether he came, led
thither only by the desire to know one of
whom his father and the world spoke well, it
matters little.

When the morning came, he found an excuse,
to remain until late in the day. He had much
to tell of interest to those about him. He,
too, was in the service — a captain in the army.
His regiment, he said, was stationed in the Far
West, and he had a short furlough. He had
also many stories of the past to tell, and was
able to recall to the memory of his host scenes
and incidents in his early life, as they had been
narrated to him by his father, dwelling upon
them with the enthusiasm of youth, and so

^okn Munro. 2 69

turning the old man's thoughts from the pres-
ent to the past, that he seemed to grow young
again.

The eye of his daughter brightened as she
watched the happy change.

Night was coming on, and he was urged to
delay his departure until the morrow. He was
nothing loth ; and the following day found him
there still ; and not that day alone, but a week
passed, and still he lingered. In truth so at-
tached had the old man become to him, that
he seemed unhappy when he was even from
his side.

The dragoon watched him with a suspicious
eye. Had there been no other tenant of the
house than his master, he would have rejoiced
at heart, to see him shaking off the lethargy,
which had weighed him down for months.
But he also observed that while the guest was
talking with the father, his eyes were conveying
a tale of a different sort to the daughter ; and
the drooping eye and blushing cheek of the
girl, and the furtive glance, causing her to red-
den to the very temples when detected — all
told the old story as well as words could have
done.

2 JO yohn Munro.

The dragoon fairly gnashed his teeth, as he
looked on, and felt how powerless he was.
From the bottom of his soul he distrusted the
man ; for there was something in his dark glow-
ing eye, fascinating as that of a serpent, that
made him feel that he was false at heart.

He endeavored to caution the father against
the too great intimacy which was springing up
between the young man and his daughter — ^but
he would hear nothing against his new friend.

While this was going on at the house a stranr
ger arrived at the village. No one knew him.
Nor did he say from whence he came. It
leaked out, however, that he was a friend of
Captain Rivers, and had come at his request.

Why Rivers had sent for him he did not
say; and no one knew.

Several times he and Rivers were seen to-
gether in an out-of-the-way place ; but he never
came to the house, except once, when Colonel
Grafton and the dragoon were absent on busi-
ness.

Then he called, and spent some time there
with Edith and Rivers.

He departed before Colonel Grafton returned,
and on the following day he left the village^

John Munro. 271

All that John could do was to watch and
wait. On one pretext or another Rivers con-
tinued to linger on for several weeks, and, in
spite of all the efforts of the dragoon, the in-
timacy between his mistress and their guest
grew more close.

At last, Rivers announced to them that his
furlough had expired, and that he must leave
on the following morning.

John was present when he announced his in-
tention. He did not hear the words of regret
which his master uttered, for he was watching
the drooping form of his little mistress.

All that evening she moved about with a
listless, frightened air, keeping close to her
father's side, and shrinking from their visitor,
with an expression almost of aversion. She
never looked at him, and when he approached
her, drew away, and when she retired for the
night she placed her arms about her father's
neck, and asked his blessing.

John Monroe watched her as she went up-
stairs, and muttered an inward thanksgiving
that on the morrow the author of her troubles
would be far away.

That night she fled. When the morning

272 JohnMunro.

came they found her room unoccupied, and a
letter on the floor, addressed to John Munro.
It ran thus :

" Dear John :

''Comfort my father in his hour of need. A
great calamity has fallen upon me, and I must go
where there are none who ever knew me."

It was not signed.

John Munro could not believe it. He sought
her through the house, and through the garden,
and through every nook and comer of the
grounds.

He read the letter again and again, but it
seemed to bring no conviction to his mind, and
he resumed his search. But it was idle, and
the reality of her flight at last settled down upon
them. Her father sank beneath the blow,
and when he had recovered from the half
unconscious state into which her loss had
thrown him, his words were few.

" John, when I lamented the loss of wealth,
I little dreamed how much was left to lose.
Help me to bed."

The dragoon raised him in his arms and bore
him to his room. He never left it, but lingered
on a few weeks, watching anxiously as each

yohn Munro. 2 73

step approached, and then turning his face
drearily to the wall as it passed.

He died at last. His parting words were:
"John, you will remain here, and have a home for
her when she returns — as she will be sure to do."

As he spoke, his head fell back upon the
breast of the dragoon who was supporting him,
and he was dead.

A week had passed ; the remains of the colo-
nel had been committed to the earth, and John
Munro had returned to the deserted house. He
seldom left it now, but seemed forever on the
watch. He had been a silent man, but now he
never spoke unless when addressed, and his
mind seemed ever busy with one sad and over-
whelming thought.

"John, you will remain here and have a
home for her when she returns — as she will be
sure to do."

He was sitting near the fire, where he always
sat, as he repeated these words. The room wore
a cheerful look, for he strove to keep it as it
was when she had occupied it. But that night
he was strangely restless ; he paced the floor,
then seated himself and endeavored to read,
but memories of the past were busy in his brain ;

2 74 yohn Munro.

his book was unheeded ; the light g^ew dim ;
the fire flashed and flickered, and fantastic
shadows danced upon the walls.

He was roused from his reveries by a tap at
the window-pane. He looked up. He knew
full well the face that was looking in — pale and
haggard though it was. He hastened to the
door, drew back the bolt, and without a word
opened wide his sheltering arms, and taking
the drooping figure, which was crouching there,
to his breast, bore her in and placed her in a
chair in front of the fire.

Kneeling down, he took her hand in his and
carried it to his lips, as respectfully as if its
owner wore a diadem, for her misfortunes had
made her holy in his eyes.

He gazed wistfully in her face, and as he did
so, she saw that tears were coursing down his
rough cheeks.

She interpreted the look truly, and bowed
her head in her hands and wept. For a mo-
ment she continued thus. It was for a moment
only; then she rose, confronting him face to
face, and meeting his look, eye to eye, firmly,
fearlessly, and without blenching.

" John, you shall hear my story. Do not

yohn Munro. 275

look at me ; look down, and do not raise your
head until I have told you all. I have been
wronged, but I have not sinned."

His hands were resting on the back of a chair,
and he bent his head upon them; and she,
standing at his side, with her hand resting on
his shoulder, in a voice low and tremulous, but
which struck upon his ear with the distinctness
of a trumpet call, told her story.

As she went on, his heart almost stood still,
but he uttered not a sound. The frail chair
snapped beneath the iron grip of his fingers —
that alone told of the fierce feelings which he
was keeping down. At last she paused, and
the dragoon, mindful of his promise, did not
raise his head. He waited to hear more, but
the tale was ended.

There was a stifled sob — ^the next instant she
was senseless at his feet. Tenderly as a mother
would raise her infant, the veteran lifted her
in his arms, and carrying her to her room, laid
her on her own bed. Then he withdrew and
sent the woman to her.

Steps were said to haunt that house ; and all
that night long a heavy step paced up and
down the corridor which led to the girl's room ;

2 76 ybAn Munro.

but it was no phantom footstep, for John
Munro kept unwearied watch there, pausing
to listen, as he fancied that he heard some
sound within, and then passing on, as the un-
broken silence led him to believe it to be but
an idle fancy.

At last the darkness of night gave place to
the twilight of the coming day ; and not till then
did John quit his post.

He went down stairs, and wandered through
the house like one in a dream. He took note
of nothing, but at times stood with his hands
pressed against his head. More than an hour
sped by, and the dim rooms began to grow
cheerful with the rays of the morning sun.

In the midst of his reveries he was aroused
by a shrill cry.

"John, come up here ! '* called out the woman.
"As I believe in God, I am afraid the child is
dead ! "

John uttered a cry. For a moment he could
not see, but reeled like one who had received a
sudden blow, then rallying his energies, he hur-
ried up the stairs and into the giri's room.

He found the woman's fears too true. The
silence of the room, so very deathlike, that it

John Munro. 277

seemed to take its source from the calm figure
that lay upon the bed, buried in its everlasting
sleep, spoke the truth too clearly.

Every trace of the deep agony and despair
which had rested on her features the night be-
fore, when she had recounted the story of her
wrongs, had disappeared, and the pale face
wore a smile as pure and beautiful as in life.
Her hair lay loosely on her pillow, and her
hands were clasped as if in prayer.

The room was as she left it when she fled.
Her work-table stood near the bed, with the
various trifles on it which showed her taste for
what was beautiful. Her sketches on the wall,
in their neat but homely frames, and every
thing about, betokened her life and presence,
except the cold and wasted form upon the bed,
which too truly pointed out her eternal
absence.

For a few moments, the soldier stood like
one bewildered ; but by degrees the expres-
sion of his face grew hard and stem, until its
features seemed turned into stone. He went
to the table, took a scissors from it, and cut off
a lock of the dark, dishevelled hair. He
pressed it to his lips, then raised it high aloft,

2 78 John Munro.

and with his eyes turned towards heaven, he
registered a vow from which he never swerved.

CHAPTER II,

In a few days the house was shut up, and
John Munro had left the place. A single per-
son had met him at early dawn, with a small
valise in his hand. To his enquiries the only
reply he gave was that some unsettled business
of Colonel Grafton's had called him away, and
that he did not know when he should return.

From place to place he followed on the track
of Captain Rivers, with an untiring determina-
tion that never slept. At length he learned
that he was stationed with his regiment at a
frontier town on the very verge of the wilder-
ness, and thither he directed his course.

Late one afternoon he reached the place,
and enquired for the house where the officer
was quartered. Having, with a strange feeling
of punctilliousness, divested himself of his
usual dress, and donned his dragoon's uniform,
he set out to fulfil his mission.

As he approached the house he heard the
sound of boisterous merriment within, for Riv-

yokn Munro. 2 79

ers was entertaining some of his fellow-officers,
and the revelry was running high.

Their gayety was interrupted by a sudden,
sharp knock at the door of the room, and
in reply to the summons to enter, the dragoon
walked in.

For a moment he was dazzled by the lights,
and looked around as if bewildered ; then he
strode to the head of the table, where Rivers
sat. There was something in the stern, reso-
lute eye, and in the expression of concentrated
wrath, kept down only by the fierce will of the
man, that hushed the party into silence.

Rivers looked up with some surprise at the
bold bearing of one wearing the uniform of a
private soldier ; but did not recognize him, and
rose instantly to resent the intrusion.

" How, now, sir ! Is this a time and a manner
in which to present yourself to your superior
officer ? **

" I am here,** said John, in a slow, deliberate
tone, "to seek one Captain Rivers, and my
business with him is such, that I must present
myself to him where he is and as I am."

" I am he,** replied the officer, sharply, and
evidently struggling to remember where he had

2 8o y^oAn Mu nro.

met the bold, sun-burnt man who stood before
him.

" I know it well," replied the trooper ; " I am
John Munro, late of the United States Dra-
goons, the friend and comrade of Colonel Rich-
ard Grafton. You know me now, and may guess
my errand ; and, before this company, I call
on you to defend your name, for I pronounce
you to be a villain and a scoundrel."

With a cheek which had blanched to ashy
whiteness, and with hands nervously grasping
the back of the chair on which he leaned. Riv-
ers confronted his accuser. His lips moved,
but no sound escaped them. The stem, glow-
ing eye which rested on his face without waver-
ing, held him spellbound. Then, with an effort,
he rallied himself, and breaking out into a loud
laugh, said :

" Gentlemen, this worthy man I now recog-
nize as a servant in the family of the g^rl of
whom you have heard me speak, little Edith.
I trust," said he, with a sneer, ** that you will
not judge her by her representative, for she is
beautiful ; what he is, you can judge for your-
selves. Well, she threw herself in my way, and
the result was, what happens every day. She

yohn Munro. 281

left me for reasons best known to herself ; and
next in the order of the plot, this fellow presents
himself as you have seen to-night. Now you
know as much of the matter, and of John
Munro, as I do. Having complied with his
request, which was urged in a somewhat un-
ceremonious manner, and which from another
person I should have met in another way,
I trust he will see the propriety of with-
drawing."

As he spoke, his embarrassment gradually
disappeared. He resumed his seat, and turn-
ing to the dragoon, whose eye he had hitherto
avoided, he pointed to the door.

" You will leave my quarters.**

John Munro had heard him out. He had
made no attempt to interrupt or check him when
he spoke, but his steady eyes never moved from
his face.

" Captain Rivers," said he, in the same slow,
deliberate tone in which he had spoken from
the first, " I am no longer your inferior in rank.
I have left the service, and now stand before
you as an equal, as man to man, and before
this company, I pronounce you to be a liar.
You have sent as pure-hearted a lady as ever

282 yohn Munro.

lived to her grave, and you have added to your
infamy by traducing her memory."

'* Dead ! *' exclaimed Rivers.

John heard him not, but went on.

** In the service, when a wrong is done, the
party injured, or his representative, has a right
to redress, and I have come for it."

The blunt, bold bearing of the man carried
with it a conviction of his truth; and even
among those whom he had gathered about him,
Rivers felt that his cause was a weak one, but
his pride could not brook an encounter with
one from the ranks, yet he moderated his tone
as he spoke.

" It cannot be ; your position forbids it. Any
pecuniary atonement which I can offer "

The trooper did not wait for him to finish, but
without noticing his concluding words, he said :

"There was a time when to brand any
man in the army, as I have branded you, would
have roused even a coward to battle for his
honor. What can come to a service where even
its officers will tamely submit to epithets like
these?"

Rivers rose hastily to his feet — " You have
had my answer — ^begone ! "

yokn Munro. 283

John Munro heeded him not, but turning
to those about him, and towards whom hither
to he had not looked, he said :

«

" I know the respect which is due to you as
officers, but I also know what is due to me.
Had Captain Rivers been as careful of the
rights of others as he is of his own, there never
would have been a hard thought between us.
But I came here for a purpose, and that pur-
pose I will carry out, or leave my dead body
where I stand. Yet, in the eyes of you, his
friends, I would be justified in what I am to
do."

He paused as if to gather strength to go on.

" In many a hard-fought field I followed Colo-
nel Richard Grafton, as bold an officer as ever
led a soldier, and when he retired from the ser-
vice I went with him, not as a servant, but as
any friend may follow a gallant leader whom
he reveres and loves. He told you the
truth when he said that Colonel Grafton's
daughter was beautiful, but he lied most foully
when he spoke aught against her purity. He
came to her father's house a stranger, and was
received with open-handed hospitality, and he
repaid it by asking the daughter of the host to

284 yohn Munro.

become his wife. He knew her too well to
insult her by any other proposal. She con-
sented, for she loved him. Then, on some plea
or other, he urged a secret marriage. An
accomplice was brought to her father's house
while he was absent. A ceremony was per-
formed, and she believed herself to be the wife
of Captain Rivers. There never had been con-
cealments between her and her father, and she
begged of that man** said he, pointing to Rivers,
" that there should be none then. Delay, de-
ceit, subterfuge followed, until at last he threw
off the mask, and told her that their marriage
was a sham one.

" Gentlemen, I am not learned in law, and
know not whether he told her the truth, but
she believed him. That night she left her
home, but not with him. She had few friends,
and none of influence. This man had con-
nections who were powerful; and he trusted
to her obscurity and to their protection to
escape the penalty of his crime. Her father
had been in the service like your selves, and
you may judge what his feelings were. He
died of grief, and left his child to me — z,
sacred trust. I did not know her story then,

yohn Munro. 285

and — may God forgive me — I wronged her in
my thoughts. But at last a heart-broken
thing, she crept back to her home, and told me
all. That night she died ; and I sometimes
fear that in the agony of her humiliation, she
forgot her religion and her God, and died by
her own hand.**

He dashed off the perspiration which stood
in great drops on his brow, and went on.

"There is an instinct in the heart, which
teaches every man to resent the wrongs of
those he loves. It is living here,** said he,
placing his finger on his brawny breast, " and
calls on me to punish him who dragged her
down. I had hoped when I came here,** said
he, speaking slowly and in a distinct voice, that
every word might tell, " that at least I would
have found a man to deal with ; but neither
cowardice nor rank shall screen him now. I
will show you how John Munro deals with
such as he.*'

He made a single stride to the officer, and
pinioning his arms with a grasp that rendered
him powerless, he dragged him to him, spat in
his face, and flung him on the floor.

He eyed him for a moment, and then turned

286 yohn Munro.

to the door ; but Rivers sprang to his feet, and
seizing a pistol which lay on the mantelpiece,
he levelled it at the head of the dragoon.
John Munro turned about, and faced him
without blenching. Twice Rivers lowered it.
and twice he raised it with a hesitating motion,
but he did not fire ; and in another instant the
weapon was wrested from his grasp by one of
his comrades.

" You *re right," said he, in a husky voice.
" Remove the table ; he shall have the chas-
tisement he deserves. Hand me those swords.
I suppose you can use them ? '* said he, bit-
terly.

" Any weapon,*' was the reply.

A sword was handed to him. He eyed it for
a moment, while those present were engaged
in removing the chairs and table, so as to give
space to the combatants. He then placed it in
a comer of the room, quietly took off his coat
and waistcoat, and put them on a chair at his
side. Rivers made the same preparations at
the opposite side of the room. Not a word
was spoken ; for the immovable features and
resolved air of Munro showed plainly that
interference, as far as he was concerned, would

yohn Munro. 287

be useless ; and the bitter insult which he had
offered, was one which not one of them felt in-
clined to advise their comrade to brook.

" Gentlemen/* said the trooper, as he took
his position, " before I go into this matter, from
which both of us will not come out alive, I wish
you to bear witness that I have given this man
a fair field. I fight him with weapons of his
own choosing. I have no second. If I go
down, — ^be it so, but do not let my body be
dishonored by his touch."

One of the company who had stood by, a
deeply interested spectator, got up ; he was
little more than a boy, fresh from his home.

" It shall not be said that in such a quarrel
you had no friend. I will see fair play."

" It is well, and I thank you," said the dra-
goon. " Now, sir, I am ready."

His words were scarcely uttered when the
blades crossed. Rivers was a good swordsman ;
but the result was not in doubt for a single in-
stant. Scarcely had the clash of steel sounded
through the room before his weapon was struck
from his grasp, and the sword of the dragoon
passed through his body.

For a moment he stood grasping at the air,

288 John Munro.

and would have fallen, but that one of the offi-
cers caught him in his anns, and laid him gently
on the floor. When they turned him over he
was dead.

The dragoon stood for a moment bending
over him. " With man his reckoning is past/*
said he, gloomily. " If, in what I have done,
I have wronged him, he is now with One who
will do him justice.**

He went to the chair where he had left his
clothes, put them on and walked out of the
room.

The officer who had acted as his second fol-
lowed him. He spoke in a hurried voice :

" You will find my horse saddled in the sta-
ble. Take him, and put as many miles as you
can between you and this place before morn-
ing. Make for the town of D — ^, leave the
horse at the inn there, and I will get him.
Lose no time, for Captain Rivers has friends,
who will not let this affair end here.**

" It matters little now/* replied the dragoon,
" but still I thank you. I *11 take the horse and
leave him as you wish.**

The officer could hear his heavy tread long
after the darkness had hidden him from his

yohn Munro. 289

sight. He listened, until the sound of horse's
hoofs ringing on the hard soil told him that
the dragoon was following his instructions.
* * *****

John Munro never returned to the old house.
But in after years, a soldier, who had known
him, came there from the war in Mexico. He
said that the troops spoke enthusiastically of
a veteran who had served in that campaign.
From the ranks he had risen to the command
of a regiment ; but he always wore a sad, ab-
stracted air. At last he fell in battle, and be-
fore he was buried, curiosity led the soldier to
the spot, and in the fallen officer he recognized
John Munro.

A VISIT OF ST. NICHOLAS.

MANY years ago Sam Brett lived in an
out-of-the-way nook on the banks of
the Hudson, and at the base of one of the
high mountains which overhang it.

He was so far away from neighbors, that
those who took the trouble to think of him,
and of his affairs, wondered why he went there,
and how he contrived to live in such a spot.

His living, such as it was, he earned by ferry-
ing persons across the river, for it was long
before the time of steamboats and railroads.

Towns were small and far between in those
days, and people were few ; so Sam had his
neighborhood very much to himself. His fam-
ily consisted of a cheery, bright-eyed wife, still
young and handsome, and of a still more hand-
some and bright-eyed daughter.

The house was at the foot of the mountain,

with a ragged road which led to it, and which

290

A Visit of St. Nicholas. 291

was distinguishable from the rest of the moun-
tain only by the smaller size of the stones
which filled it, and by the blazed trees which
showed that an axe had been busy there, and
that any one who might choose to follow the
marks which it had made, would, in time, reach
the spot to which those marks were intended
to guide him.

More than one traveller who had stopped
there, merely to be ferried across the river,
tempted by the kindly host, was induced to
ask a night's lodging, which was given freely
and with an honest pride on all sides, as each
member of the little household thought of
what the other had done to make the place
what it was.

Mrs. Brett declared that there was no other
house like it on the whole river, and Sam de-
clared that " go where they might " such sheets
and beds could not be found in York State,
" and he 'd like to know where they *d find an-
other river like the Hudson."

As he spake, he would wave his hand in a
patronizing way back and forth towards the
grand old river, with an air of proprietorship,
as if it were as much a part of his place as the

292 A Visit of ^. Nicliolas.

house itself ; and, in truth, he was never able
to divest himself of the idea that there was a
feeling of intimate fellowship between him and
the Hudson, which did not usually exist be-
tween men and rivers.

It was winter now, just on the eve of Christ-
mas. The sky was cloudless ; the stars were
shining brightly and dancing on the water ; the
air was crisp and cold ; but the old river was
not ice-bound as yet. It sparkled and rippled
in the twilight which still flickered in the west,
although all below, at the base of the mountain,
was darkened by the shadows of the overhang-
ing forests.

Sam's household was in a state of high ex-
citement. Mrs. Brett had swept the hearth,
and the fire was blazing brightly up the chim-
ney. The tea-kettle was singing cheerily on the
hob, and the table was spread with snowy
linen, while around it hovered Mrs. Brett and
Dolly, both in earnest consultation on some
mysterious subject, and both casting anxious
glances toward the door, as if they expected
the arrival of somebody or something.

Soon there was a heavy tread, and the crack-
ling of the crisp snow beneath it, and the brush-

A Visit of St* NicJtolas. 293

ing of something against the door, as if it were
being swept. Then there was an exclamation
from Mrs. Brett, and a rush and flinging open
the door on the part of Dolly ; then a chok-
ing up of the doorway by something which
looked like the ends of a dozen small trees, and
finally Sam fought his way in, almost smothered
with Christmas greens, which he flung upon the
floor and came to the surface red and rosy
from work.

" There they are,'* said he, triumphantly.
" Now for supper ! And then we will have a
rousing time of it ; Christmas morning must
not shine on this house, little woman '* (he al-
ways spoke to his wife in a diminutive way),
''until these greens are in their places. We
must honor the day, wife, — ^the greatest day
that earth has ever seen. God blessed the
world on that day, and may He bless you and
darling Dolly and me — rough and uncouth as
I am, — ^may God bless us all ! Now, up with
the supper."

While Sam held his fingers over the fire, and
rubbed one hand over the other, Dolly and her
mother were at work ; and soon the supper was
on the table. That was dispatched without

294 A Visit of St. Nicholas.

loss of time, for there was more important
business on hand, and they could not linger at
the meal.

The cloth was removed ; the dishes, cups, and
knives and fork's disappeared so quickly from
the table that you could scarcely tell how they
went ; and the Bretts were ready to commence
at work for Christmas Eve.

Mrs. Brett was on her knees, selecting and
arranging the different kinds of evergreens ; for
there were holly, and laurel, and arbor vitae, cy-
press, pine, and hemlock, besides vines of vari-
ous kinds which Sam had gathered on the hills,
and other plants, bearing red berries, which
seemed to thrive even in winter.

Dolly was wondering how they should begin,
and Sam was standing by quietly, his giant
form towering above them like one of his own
mountain pines, when without warning there
was a sudden, sharp knock at the door.

" Gracious me ! " exclaimed Mrs. Brett," who 's
that ? "

Dolly stood with her lips parted, her arms
full of mistletoe, and her bright eyes glowing
like two stars, but she said nothing.

Sam strode to the door. " Whoever you

A Visit of St. Nicholas. 295

are, you are welcome," said he, as he opened
it.

A stranger stepped in ; and as he crossed the
threshold, he raised his fur cap, an oddly
shaped conical thing, with a fe^her in it.

"God's blessing on this house and all it
holds," said he, in a tone which was quite sol-
emn, and yet so cordial that all felt glad that
he had uttered the words.

He stamped the snow from his feet and
crushed the rime from his grizzled beard, for
he was covered with frosty dew, like one who
had come from some cold latitude.

As he looked about him and doffed a cloak
well lined with fur, they had a full view of his
person. He was short and stout, with cheeks
of frosty red, eyes bright and glittering like
diamonds, and a smile that seemed at once to
spread cheerfulness throughout the room.

Sam wondered where he came from ; for in
costume he differed from any one whom he had
ever seen.

Dolly wondered how old he was, and, strange
to say, she was sadly at fault ; for at times, as
he was taking ofif his cloak and warming him-
self at the fire, as comfortably as if he were at

296 A Visit of Si. Nicholas.

home, and had always been there, his face
seemed changed : sometimes, notwithstanding
his grizzled beard he looked almost as youth-
ful as a boy ; and then again, as he gazed in
the fire, apparently in thought, he seemed as
old as if he had arifted down to their cottage
from far-off centuries ; but through every change
of look, there was upon his face the ever-pres-
ent expression of good-will and love to man.

** Wife," said Sam, " we have supped, but this
stranger has not/'

" Thanks for your offer," said the stranger,
" I cannot linger here ; but before I journey on,
I would help in the good work which you have
on hand."

As he spoke, he began to untie the bundles
which Sam had brought in, and to arrange the
greens around the walls. With an activity
which seemed strange in one so old, and with a
step so light that it scarcely touched the floor,
he moved about the room hanging up the vines
and fastening the evergreens along the walls.

Things flitted into their places, one could
hardly tell how. The ivy was wreathed around
the windows and clothes-presses. The chim-
ney breast was hung with garlands — hemlock,

A Visit of St. Nicholas. 297

cypress, and red berries glittering like eyes
from among the branches.

They all thought that the Christmas greens
looked more green than they ever had looked
before ; and never had they been so quickly
and so tastefully arranged.

Even Dolly, with a slight feeling of jealousy
(for she had always prided herself on her skill
in arranging the house for this festal day), had
to admit that the work of the stranger far ex-
celled any she had ever done, and that never,
on a Christmas Eve, had the house looked so
bright as it did on that night.

The stranger seemed to know her thoughts,
for he turned kindly towards her and said :

" Don't mind it, my child ! I have done
this for years; when you were an infant in
your cradle, and in far-ofif times — too far for
that little head of yours to dream of. It *s a
happy work — happy, because it ushers in the
day which brought peace and good-will to man ;
happy, because it is the time when childhood
reigns supreme. In it the aged go back to the
days when with them all was hope, and sorrow
had not come ; and in the young lives which
cluster around their hearths, live their own

298 A Visit of St. Nicholas.

childhood over again. God bless the little ones
of earth, as He does those of heaven ! And
may He deal mercifully with those sad hearts
which are left on earth, while their little ones
are gathered in their Great Father's bosom ! "

He spoke so reverently that Sam instinct-
ively bowed his head. He turned to Sam.

'* The work is done," said he ; " and you must
ferry me across the river at once."

Mrs. Brett cast an anxious look towards the
dark water, while Sam was struggling his way
into his heavy overcoat, but she said nothing.

The stranger caught her look. " He will be
safe with me, and we are both safe in the care
of Him whom you have honored this night";
and as Sam led the way to the door, their guest
turned and said : " May the morrow be a happy
Christmas to you all ! "

The next minute the door closed, and Sam's
heavy footsteps were heard crushing along the
frosty path which led to the river.

Mother and daughter both watched, until
they saw the outline of the boat as it shot out
upon the water ; and long after it had been hid
in the gloom, they listened to the sturdy stroke
of the oars pulled by Sam's stalwart arms.

A Visit of St.' Nicholas. 299

The stranger was ferried across, and before
stepping ashore reached out his hand to pay
his fare.

Sam drew back. "You have done for me
and mine this night what we could not have
done for ourselves; and you have made our
home, as far as hands could do it, more home-
like than it has been for years. You owe me
nothing ; we owe you much ; and if the good
wishes of a plain, hard-working man are of any
worth, you have them."

" Be it so," said the stranger ; " yet take this
little box, as a token of my good-will. It holds
neither gold nor silver nor jewels, but it is what
one friend may freely give and another may
freely take. Open it in the morning, and not
before ; and now may God's benison be upon
you ! "

He reached out his hand, in which was a

small wooden box. As it appeared to be of

little value, Sam took it and placed it beside

him in the boat.

" Now turn your boat homeward; for there

are loving hearts waiting for the sound of your

oars."

With these words the stranger turned away,
and disappeared in the forest.

300 A Visit of St. Nicholas.

Sam followed his advice, and his oars soon
brought him to his own shore, where he found
Dolly and his wife on the look-out for his com-
ing.

As they heard his footstep, the doQr was
thrown open, and both were on the threshold
ready to hear what he had to tell of the guest,
who had come and gone so strangely, and yet
had left such a feeling of good-will towards
himself behind him.

Sam told them what had passodi and showed
the box which had been given him. He also
mentioned his promise not to open it until
morning.

Dolly examined it with much curiosity. It
was very small, and easily held in her hand,
and was closed only by a simple clasp. She
wondered what could be in it, and thought it
very inconsiderate in the old gentleman to
affix such a condition to the gift. She held it
up to the light and tried to look through it,
but she could see nothing ; then she placed it
against the end of her nose, but there was no
odor. She touched it with the tip of her
tongue, but there was no taste to it.

She did not venture to touch the clasp, be-

A Visit of St. Nichdas. 301

cause her father had said : " My child^ the
man who gave me this said, ' Open it in the
morning, and not before/ It was a free gift,
and we must honor the giver."

Dolly acquiesced, and placed the box upon
the table, where it remained until the house
was locked up and they all went to bed.

Before the lights were put out Dolly cast a
lingering look at it, and said she hoped that
nothing would happen to it during the night,
and that they would find it safe and sound in
the morning.

But do what she would, all the night long
that box kept running through her head, inter-
fering with her prayers and mixing up with her
dreams.

In truth, the thoughts of all ran much upon
their guest ; his unexpected arrival and depart-
ure, and his parting gift, and the condition an-
nexed to it.

By sunrise on the next day Dolly found her
way into the room where the box had been left.

The shutters were closed, and it was so dark
that she had to grope her way to the window
to let in the light. Then she turned to look at
the box.

302 A Visit of St. Nicholas.

" Goodness sakes alive ! " was her exclama-
tion. " Father ! father ! come here quick,
quick ! "

Sam was an early riser, and he hurried down
stairs followed by his wife.

Dolly pointed to the box, which still stood
on the table.

They walked around it in profound amaze-
ment ; for there it was looming up in size like
a small house, yet in shape and in every thing
but magnitude it was the very box which they
had left on the table the night before.

They swarmed about it like ants around
some choice morsel so large that they dared
not meddle with it.

At last Sam said : " He who gave us this
was a good man, and would not harm us. I,
for one, will trust him ; and come what may,
I '11 open it, big as it has grown to be, and
we '11 soon see what tomes of it."

Sam mounted on the table and touched the
spring. The lid flew open, and he forthwith
plunged his hand into the trunk.

Out came a cloth on which was written in
large letters : ^^Tlie gift of Santa Claus''

Dolly and her mother were now on the alert.

A Visit of St. Nicholas. 303

Quick, Sam, what comes next ?

Next Sam brought out a bundle which
seemed to be made up of silk and ribbons, and
of a shape to him unknown.

" This is beyond me," said he, as he held it up
and viewed it with wondering eyes.

His wife and Dolly fairly danced with
pleasure.

♦' Why, Sam ! Don't you know what it is ?
It 's a beautiful gown. Ods sakes-alive ! ** said
she, as she took it from him and wrapped it
around her person, and twisted herself almost
into a corkscrew to see how it fitted behind.
" Who would have thought that Nancy Brett,
the ferryman's wife, would have owned a thing
like that. Now look and see what there is for
Dolly."

Again Sam plunged into the trunk. This
time he brought out a package, flat and square.
It looked liked a book. It was wrapped in
paper. Dolly took it from her father's hand,
and untied the strings which were around it,
while her parents watched as eagerly as their
daughter, to see what it might be.

As she opened it Dolly uttered a faint cry,
and then her face grew rosy red. It was the

304 A Visit of St. Nicholas.

miniature of a young man, who seemed to look
at them with frank and honest eyes.

" What *s this ? " said Sam, as he took up a
scrap of paper which was enclosed in it. On tt
was written : "A gift for darling Dolly — ^All 's
well."

" God bless me ! ** said Sam, looking at the
miniature. '* It 's very strange. Methinks I
have seen this face before, but where I cannot
tell."

If Dolly knew, she held her peace.

Again Sam returned to the trunk, from which
he drew articles of various kinds ; some for him-
self, some for his wife, and not a few for Dolly.

They were placed around the room, and it
seemed a marvel how a trunk of that size could
have contained all that had come out of it.

They all agreed that on no Christmas-day
had their home been so beautiful as it then was ;
and many were the blessings which they show-
ered upon their strange guest.

After a while a search was made for the
miniature, but in some mysterious way it had
disappeared ; although Sam and his wife rum-
maged for it among all the furniture and odds
and ends which were scattered about the room.

A Visit of St. Nicholas. 305

iPerhaps, if they had searched a large pocket
which was attached to Dolly's gown they
might have found it.

But there was much to be done on Christmas-
day, and they separated to attend to their dif-
ferent duties, all not a little proud of the gay
appearance of their home.

Dolly went to her room and locked the door.
Then she drew the miniature from her pocket
and kissed it.

She was interrupted by a loud shout, from
without, from Sam.

" By the living Jingo, there 's a new boat at
the shore with my name painted on it in letters
as big as my hand. ' A gift to Sam Brett from
Santa Claus.* Hooroar, hooroar ! " and he
burst into the house, his face radiant with sat-
isfaction.

They all went to look at the boat; and
decided that never had there been so fine a
boat as that one, nor so good a friend as their
guest of the previous evening.

All day long they talked and thought of
nothing else. Dolly did not say as much as
the others, but she thought a great deal more.
At last when the sun went down, and the even-

^

306 A Visit of St. Nicholas.

ing shadows were creeping through the room,
there was a sharp knock at the door. Dolly
and her mother were there, but her father was
at the shore busy with his boat.

" Come in," was the response to the knock.

The door opened, and a young man entered.
He looked around the room, then walked up to
Dolly and reached out his hand.

" You see, Dolly," said he, " that I have come
to keep the promise made long years ago ; will
you take me now — as you promised to do
then ? "

For a few moments Dolly seemed bewildered,
and the red blood mounted to her cheeks ;
then rising from her seat she led him to Mrs.
Brett.

" Mother, this is my old play-fellow, William
Chester; I hope you have not forgotten him."

Mrs. Brett took his hand and told him that
she remembered him well ; and welcomed him
to their home.

Just then Sam's burly figure passed the win-
dow and he came into the room.

He was full of news about his boat, and of
her beauty and merits ; but before he had time
to speak his eyes rested on the stranger, and he
stopped short.

A Visit of St. Nicfwlas. 307

" Father," said Dolly, " this is William Ches-
ter. He has been abroad for many years, and
has returned just now. You knew his father,
Richard Chester.**

" What ! " exclaimed Sam, as he grasped the
hand of the young man. " A son of Dick Ches-
ter, my old and best friend. You are welcome
here, and to all that I have ; for your father
helped me in my hour of need ; and all that I
can do for him and his, I will do with all my
heart ! Are you the little chap who used to hang
about my boat years ago, and who spilled my
tar and kicked my dog ? '*

The stranger laughed. " I did all that in
those days, and there is one thing more, that
I did then, which you have not mentioned, and
perhaps have not found out. I learned to love
your daughter, Dolly, and I believe that she
then learned to love me. We have neither of
us forgotten our lesson. Give her to me for a
Christmas gift ! I am well off and will give her
a happy home."

Sam was perfectly bewildered. " Bless me ! *'
exclaimed he. " Give you my Dolly for a Christ-
mas gift ? Why, she is but a child — not grown
up — very little more than a baby. I never
dreamed of this.*'

3o8 A Visit of St. Nicholas.

He turned to his wife : " Is n*t this very
strange ? And Dolly is so very young."

" Not very/* was the prompt reply. " I was
just of Dolly's age when you took me."

" God bless me I Is that so, Nancy ? *'

" She is twenty years old : and so was I."

" Well, well ! '* said Sam, apparently some-
what shaken by this stubborn fact. " What
shall I do ? "

" Let him have her," was the ready answer.
"He comes of a good stock ; and years ago,
when they were but boy and girl playing to-
gether, I sometimes suspected this, and have
kept trace of him ever since. He is honest
and true. Give them your blessing, and I shall
give him mine."

" So be it," said Sam. And he rose and put
Dolly's hand into that of his young guest.

" I *11 trust her with you, although you did
spill my tar and kick my dog.

And thus ended the visit of St. Nicholas.

LITTLE SHARPSHINS.

A Child's Story.

ALONG time ago three little children
lived with their mother in a cottage,
over which honeysuckles and wild roses clam-
bered and hung down from the roof-top, filling
the air with their perfume. Near this cottage
was a small lake, where the water lilies floated
among green leaves. The trees on its borders
drooped their branches into the water, through
which the gold-fish darted like streaks of flame.

The youngest of these children was a pale,
puny little fellow, with golden hair, and great
eyes which looked from beneath his hair like
stars ; and who was forever gazing in the sky,
as if looking for the great heaven which lay
beyond.

He was so thin and feeble that his brother
and sister called him Little Sharpshins ; and
after a while his mother called him so too ; and

309

3IO Little Sharpshins.

then all the neighbors did so, until at last he
was known by no other name.

His brother's name was Dick — but, poor
fellow ! he was lame, and hobbled about on a
crutch.

He was a noble boy, merry as a cricket ; very
fond of Little Sharpshins ; and had any danger
threatened him would have battled for him
against an army.

Dick was the eldest of the three ; next was
Mary, a girl five years old, who had the same
golden hair as Little Sharpshins.

They both looked up to Dick as one of the
greatest heroes in the world, and felt that with
him as a protector no harm could ever befall
them.

But one day as little Mary was walking on
the bank of the lake, her foot slipped and she
fell in.

Dick heard her cry, and reached the place
only in time to see her sinking beneath the
water.

He could not swim ; but he knew no fear.
He sprang in after her, and struggled on until
he got her in his arms ; but he could not save
her, and they sank together*

Little Sharpshins. 311

They were found and buried ; but it seemed
very strange to Little Sharpshins to be left
alone, and he was forever asking his mother
about Mary and Dick, and where they were
gone, and when he would see them again ; for
he was very lonely without them.

Sometimes to amuse him his mother made
some suds, and brought him a little pipe, with
which he blew soap bubbles, and watched them
as they floated out of the window and up into
the blue sky, while he wondered whether they
ever reached heaven before they stopped.

One day he took his pipe, dipped it into the
suds, and blew.

From the pipe came forth a bubble ; it grew
larger and larger. Still he blew on until it grew
so great that it encircled the chair in which he
sat.

He could not tell how it came to pass, but
soon he found himself inside the bubble, while
it rose slowly and gently, bearing him along
with it, and floated out of the window into the
bright sunshine.

Still upward it went, until it reached the
tops of the trees, and then they were left be-
hind, and Little Sharpshins saw that the earth

312 Little Sharpshifis.

was going away and the clouds were coming
near.

He was not in the least frightened, but he
fixed his great eyes on the sky and wondered
whether this were the road to heaven.

On went the bubble. The clouds were passed
and lay beneath him, like g^eat banks of snow,
shutting out all sight of earth ; but far above
all was the still blue sky ; and oh, how still it
was ! and in the dim distance he could see a
region far different from that which he had left
— fields glorious with flowers, and trees and
rivers, such as he had never seen on earth.

The bubble floated on, until it seemed to
rest upon a bed of flowers ; and around him
were angel forms and faces, such as he had
heard his mother speak of ; and had sometimes
seen in his dreams ; and among them he saw
little Dick and Mary.

There was no crutch needed now ; no feeble
gait, nor sunken cheek, for both were gloriously
beautiful ; and as they put their arms around him
and kissed him, and called him their dear Little
Sharpshins, he asked them if they were angels,
and if they still loved him, poor and feeble as
he was. They told him that their life was love ;

LitUe Sharpshins. 313

and they twined their arms around him as they
had done on earth, and Little Sharpshins
thought what a glorious place heaven must be,
where he would always have Dick and Mary
with him.

But the bubble floated on, and they told him
that he must return again to earth.

The tears came into his eyes, but they gave
him words of cheer, and with the sadness of
his departure came a strange feeling of peace,
such as he had never felt before.

The bubble floated earthward again, and
Little Sharpshins watched and watched the
forms of Dick and Mary, as they stood waving
their hands to him, until they faded away in
the distance, and he could see nothing of their
outlines except two bright spots like stars.

Slowly through the sky and through the
clouds the bubble sank to earth, with a motion
so gentle that Little Sharpshins fell asleep, and
awakened only to find himself in his own bed
in his own little room.

He told his mother what he had seen ; but
she said that he had been dreaming.

Sharpshins shook his head and smiled, and
said if it was a dream he was glad that he had

314 Little Sharpshins.

dreamed it, for now he knew where Dick and
Mary were, and he would join them soon.

" God forbid ! '* said his mother, with a
startled look, and she gathered him to her bo-
som as if to shield him from that last dread foe.

But no human love can keep that foe away.

Sharpshins grew more feeble day after day,
and spent much of his time in his little chair,
looking at the sky.

One day he was sitting thus, his breath com-
ing slowly and wearily, and by his side sat his
mother holding his hand in hers.

" Mother,'* said he, " bring my pipe and blow
a bubble. Perhaps it will go up to brother
Dick and sister Mary, and they will think of
me when they see it, and will come down to
me, as I went up to them.*'

His mother made the suds and got the pipe
and blew a bubble. It floated around the
room and around the bed and at last it sailed
out through the open window and up into the
blue sky, until it was lost to sight.

Little Sharpshins watched it with eager eyes,
and listened, as if he expected to hear voices.
At last he laid his head wearily upon his pil-
low. Then he said suddenly :

Little Sharpshins. 315

" Mother, take me in your arms, and let me
blow a bubble and send a message to brother
Dick ; I know he '11 answer me."

His mother took him in her arms, dipped the
pipe in the suds and held the stem to his lips,
but Sharpshins took it in his own hands, and
put it to his lips, and from the bowl came forth
a bubble so gorgeous and beautiful that it
seemed to form a rainbow around him. Then
it broke from the pipe and floated through the
room, circling around the two, and while his
mother looked, she saw within it two little fig-
ures. Could it be ! Little Dick and Mary were
there, smiling and beckoning to her.

The tears gushed from her eyes, and for a
moment she could see nothing, and the pipe
fell from Little Sharpshin's hand, clattering on
the floor. When she looked again the bubble
was floating through the window, and between
the two little figures was a third one — Little
Sharpshins, — ^with an arm around the neck of
each, and their arms twined about him.

As the bubble floated upward in the sky it
•bore the three aloft.

She gathered her little boy closely to her
breast, to be sure that she had him there, and

3i6 Little Sharpshins.

watched the bubble as it went higher and
higher, until it seemed like a star in the sky,
and disappeared altogether.

She bent gently over Little Sharpshins and
kissed his pale cheek.

" What a beautiful bubble you blew, my
child ! ** she said.

There was no reply. A mass of golden
tresses was hanging over her shoulder ; the
great eyes were closed ; there was a smile of
happiness about the lips, but Little Sharpshins
spoke no more. He had gone to the far-off
land forever.

END.